


Your Ghost Will Ask My Ghost

by imperfectkreis



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preston could say Yalda fell from the clouds. But that's not entirely accurate. There's some truth in it, though.</p><p>(main pairing Preston/Original Male Character)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There is only so much ground you can cover before the soles of your shoes wear away

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I've tried to write this in such a way that even if you haven't read ANYTHING I've posted before, you should be able to enjoy this series. 
> 
> If you are looking for the full narrative experience: You can read about the Lone Wanderer and [literally everything he has ever done here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/184958) and the Sole Survivor [making some pretty terrible mistakes here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5561593/chapters/12827155). There is [also this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5219087/chapters/12034088) that explains what Nick Valentine and RJ MacCready were up to before this story starts. And [this one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6912505/chapters/15768073) accounts for where they are at the same time this fic is going on. If you just want to [read about Yalda try this one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6276346/chapters/14381602), which is his first appearance. 
> 
> ...but seriously trying to wrangle my extended continuity is not necessary if you just want to get in on Preston getting with a nice man who treats him right, okay?

There’s little warning. Just the sharp sound of blades overhead as the battered Brotherhood Vertibird sweeps low towards Sanctuary. 

The Minutemen still catch wind of Brotherhood operatives sometimes, but never this close to Sanctuary. It’s only by chance Preston is even here. The last few weeks he’s spent at the Castle, trying to get the artillery up and running, but it’s a slow process and he needs to check on the primary arteries of the Minutemen’s supply lines. And that process has to be started at Sanctuary.

“Hold your fire,” Preston shouts at Marcy, who already has her rifle drawn. She’s not wrong to be concerned, but if the Brotherhood remnants were about to shoot on sight, well, they would have done it already. It would be raining laser in suffocating sheets of neon death. So, maybe, there’s a way out of this where no one dies.

Preston keeps his musket on his back, though, as he walks out to the center of the settlement. Looks like the Bird settled down just on the other side of the bridge, which is suspicious too. But...a good sort of suspicious, because this isn’t a frontal attack. Maybe it’s just a group of waylayed soldiers, looking to make peace.

Considering the need for backup, Preston detours to Vishnu’s house, banging on that new door Struges installed just the other day. Even though there are still holes in the walls, the door at least makes the place look official. 

Vishnu cracks the door open, shirtless, his short-cropped hair a curly mess and jeans low on his hips. It’s still not quite seven in the morning and he hasn’t dressed for the day. “What was that noise?” He reaches for his back pocket, then scowls when his cigarettes aren’t there. 

“So you did hear it. Vertibird.” Preston says, breath escaping his grasp.

Vishnu’s eyes go wide, dark eyebrows raised. “Fuck.” He grabs his jacket and laser rifle from the couch, hurrying after Preston. Zipping his jacket all the way up, he hides that he still doesn’t have an undershirt. 

Following Preston’s lead, Vishnu hangs his rifle over his shoulder. He’s not prone to violence in any case. If he can talk them through this, he will. But the real question is if that option is even on the table. The Brotherhood don’t have the means to assault any settlement under Minutemen protection head-on. Not anymore. But that doesn’t mean they won’t kill Vishnu where he stands. Preston too. If they’ve worked out who is responsible for the destruction of the Prydwen. 

There’s still no outright hostilities as they cross the bridge. Vishnu sticks his hands in his back pockets, worrying his thumbs over the fabric. Whereas before he walked in line with Preston, he picks up his step as they near the Bird.

Three men and one woman tumble out of the open bay. All with dark hair and rumpled civilian clothes. The eldest doesn’t look much more than thirty, the other three appear somewhat younger. These are not Brotherhood remnants, not a damn chance. Not with the way they’re already squabbling amongst themselves. 

The oldest man, with black hair, just starting to gray, and blue eyes, barks at the shortest of the group, a heavily built man with black hair falling in front of his dark eyes and a scowl on his lips. “How do ya even know this is the place?”

“Because of the map! Check yours if you think I’m wrong.” He gestures to the blue-eyed man’s wrist, where he has a Pipboy strapped on. Vaultie. Like Vishnu. Well, not exactly like Vishnu. All the vaults are supposed to be different. So the blue-eyed man probably wasn’t born before the bombs, but he may be just as odd.

“I ain’t saying there ain’t a marker here, but that don’t mean nothing!”

Completely absorbed in each other, the two men ignore Preston and Vishnu’s approach. 

They stop just meters away from the argument, assuming that eventually the bickering will die down.

When the argument shows no sign of stopping, the woman and third man turn away from their companions. They’re equally tall, about five foot ten, or so, though the woman’s coarse hair, tied off on either side of her head, makes her appear much taller. Her fingernails are as meticulously groomed as her hair.

The third man is slender and unassuming, but his brown eyes are bright and friendly. He smiles at Preston and Vishnu and gives a little wave as he and the woman step away from their still-arguing companions. He wears his hair loose and shaggy, not quite reaching his shoulders. With a delicate nose and plush lips, he’s almost pretty. 

Vishnu holds his hand to the woman first. She accepts it, maintaining eye contact with Vishnu first, then Preston as they shake hands as well. “Caroline,” she introduces herself. 

“Vishnu Weiss,” he smiles in return, keeping his posture open and friendly. Preston knows well enough it’s partially an act. Vishnu has perfected the art of making himself look less like a lumbering giant and more like a refined confidant. Someone you could share your secrets with. Someone who would never judge you on your past, only on your merits.

It’s why, despite everything else, Preston still stands with him. Because Vishnu sees the best in people. Perhaps to a fault. 

“Hello!” The other man waves again, realizing a little late that he should shake hands as well. “I’m Yalda, pleased to meet you.”

Vishnu looks from one of the newcomers to the other. While the obvious question is about the Vertibird, his line of thought doesn’t start there. “You’re Canadian?” 

Yalda puts his hand in front of his lips, as if to hide his words. “How could you tell? I mean! Ah…”

Caroline shakes her head. They’re both young. Preston isn’t sure how young, but Caroline in particular shows few signs of aging, her dark skin smooth and even, not even a hint of wrinkles around her eyes or forehead. Yalda is not much older, though his skin is blotchier, it may only be because he is lighter skinned.

“The accent,” Vishnu supplies, trying to diffuse Caroline’s suspicions.

“And how would you know that?” the corners of her mouth turn downward.

Vishnu laughs, throwing his hand behind his head to scratch at his neck. “Funny story, that one. Suppose you aren’t from around here, then.”

“No,” it’s the short man with dark eyes, finally finished with his argument and practically pulling the blue-eyed man behind him by the front of his tshirt. “We’re not.”

But the short man’s accent is familiar, not all that different from most everyone up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Hell, his accent is less strange that Vishnu’s, which retains something of the pre-Bomb Boston in his vowels. 

“Tate DeLoria,” the short man holds out his right hand. “And this is Butch,” he gestures to the older man. “Also DeLoria.”

Under the cuff of Tate’s flannel, Preston can make out that his left hand isn’t real. Looks a little like a gen 2, though the rest of him appears to be flesh and bone. So maybe a gen 3 then? Who has taken some damage? 

“What can we help you with?” Vishnu pulls his pack of cigarettes to offer to all four. Butch and Caroline both take sticks, while Tate and Yalda decline. 

Tate points one finger at Vishnu’s wrist, “What number?”

Keeping his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, Vishnu taps his other fingers against the Pipboy screen. “One-eleven. And you, Butch?”

Butch takes a steady drag. “One-oh-one. Not just me though, Tate, too.” He reaches over to flick the back of Tate’s ear with his free hand. Tate swats the hand away.

“Wait,” Preston remembers the stories, they’re old now. They couldn’t be. “One-oh-one? From the Capital, right? I’ve heard about that vault.”

“Yeah,” Tate looks a little sheepish under his long hair, “That’s the one.”

“Liberty Prime,” Vishnu mumbles, half under his breath. “I was told about the Purifier, at Jefferson Memorial?”

“So it is true?” Tate cocks his head to one side. “You’re that ‘Sole Survivor.’ You are working with the Brotherhood?”

“Yeah, was working with them. Past tense,” Vishnu confirms.

“We’re here about that blimp of theirs,” Butch explains.

Vishnu shakes his head, “Are you Brotherhood, or not.”

Preston’s hand is just twitching for his musket. Everything’s been real smooth up until this point. But these kids plopped down in a Brotherhood Vertibird, now they’re asking about the Prydwen. Caroline looks uneasy too. There’s a sidearm in the waistband of her jeans, but Yalda doesn’t look armed, just wringing his hands together.

“Just tell him the truth, Tate!” Yalda protests.

Tate scowls, “Listen, we ain’t Brotherhood. Never will be, never was. Doesn’t matter what the records say. Well,” he hesitates, “Jack and Yalda were. But none of us are now. We came here about the Prydwen. Our friend is on it.”

Preston’s not ready to let his guard down. Nope, not at all. Especially not now that the Prydwen is destroyed. Nothing but ash and metal bones scattered across the airport.

“Oh,” Vishnu covers his mouth with his hand, “oh fuck…”

Tate looks hurriedly from Vishnu to Preston and back again, his hair bouncing as his head turns. “What the fuck?”

“The Prydwen was destroyed...weeks ago.”

Butch interjects, his eyes wide, “How? Who?”

Not giving Vishnu the time to devise a story, Preston is honest with them. “We did. Vishnu and I. We had to stop the Brotherhood’s influence here in the Commonwealth. They had gone...too far.”

Tate screams.

\--

Butch ends up dragging Tate back to the Vertibird, though he looks no better than his husband does, his light eyes full of tears. They talk to each other faster than Preston can keep up, in a sort of indecipherable shorthand, and he doesn’t want to eavesdrop in any case. But now all he and Vishnu can do is wait. They smoke another cigarette with Caroline, Yalda sitting down in the dirt with them, though he refuses the smoke a second time.

“Something about a friend of theirs, from the vault. Amata,” Caroline shakes her head. “I don’t know much more than that.”

“But she was in the Brotherhood?” Vishnu asks, trying to sound sympathetic.

“No, ah,” Yalda is a bit hesitant at first. “She was on the Prydwen, but Butch and Tate made it sound like she hadn’t yet been recruited.” He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Everywhere he looks like skin and bones. “So, maybe she wasn’t aboard the ship at all?”

Caroline shrugs, “I’m not going to get their hopes up. But I doubt they’ll give up just because you might have blown her to bits.”

Keeping the conversation going, Vishnu asks, “Tate said you two were Brotherhood. Aren’t you going to try and kill us? If they don’t?”

“Oh, hell no,” Caroline laughs. “I left by choice. That was a dead end if I ever saw one.” She takes her own pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. Lighting one, she offers two more to Vishnu and Preston.

“And what about you?” Preston asks Yalda, who has pressed his chin down to his knees. 

“Oh!” He bites at his bottom lip. “I couldn’t stay either. I mean, I would have liked….but I couldn’t.” Sitting up straighter, he starts waving his hands back and forth, the nest of cords and bands at his wrist shaking, “Not that! I would do anything...I’m sure you had your reasons for wanting the Brotherhood...gone. Um, Butch and Tate told me, about how they can be. How they are out here…”

Caroline rolls her eyes, “You’ll have to excuse him. Sticks his foot in his mouth, a lot.”

Yalda’s cheeks are bright peachy-pink as he buries his face in his arms again. 

“Hey!” It’s Butch and Tate again, heading over from the Vertibird. Tate’s cheeks are streaked with salt and both their eyes are red. The crimson color shows more brightly set against Butch’s blue. “So, we made some decisions,” Tate flops down in the dirt next to Yalda. “I ain’t gonna believe Amata is gone just because you blew up the Prydwen. She ain’t dumb. She woulda gotten off a sinking ship.”

Vishnu nods, unwilling to contradict anything Tate might say. He’s proven to be somewhat short tempered already. 

“We’re gonna find her, me and Butch. Ah only,” Tate reaches into his pack, pulling out a Pipboy with some sort of battery wedged into where his hand would go. “Could you copy your maps over? So we get a good idea of where to start.”

“Sure,” Vishnu takes the Pipboy from Tate, clearly unsure what to do with it before Butch comes around, popping a cord into Tate’s Pipboy and snaking it around to Vishnu’s. He works silently for a couple of minutes, tapping away on Tate’s to get the files transferred.

“There’s one other thing,” Butch says as he’s disconnecting the cable. “We’d like the leave the Bird here. It draws too much attention. Though it is a sweet ride.”

“Understandable,” Vishnu replies.

“And Jack, you and Yalda don’t have to come with us. We know it’s been a long trip.” Settling back on the ground, Butch throws his arm around Tate’s shoulders. “Just let us know what you wanna do?”

Caroline puts out her cigarette in the dirt, brushing off her slacks. “I’ll come, at least for the start. I have my own questions about what the Brotherhood were even doing here.”

“Course,” Butch nods, “Yalda?”

“Oh...I don’t want to get in the way at all?”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Vishnu offers. “We have the space and the resources.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Yalda blurts out. “I can help. I can build things, or do repairs? Anything to help.”

Reaching forward, Preston lays a hand on Yalda’s shoulder, “That’s not necessary, really. But if you want to make yourself useful, we can talk to Sturges, he handles most everything around Sanctuary. See if he has work for you?”

Yalda nods, “Yes!” his hands flutter again, “of course!”

Preston forces a smile. With all his eagerness, Yalda seems sweet enough. But that’s not enough to put Preston at ease.


	2. A Lot of Secrets Plus a Big Mouth Add Up To About Three Hundred Apologies

Butch and Tate pull Yalda aside before they depart, each one of them tugging on an arm. But their speech starts out too quick for Yalda to keep up and he has to remind them to slow down.

“Listen, we’ll leave you if you want,” Tate starts.

Butch finishes, “But you can’t tell anyone about, you know, your thing.”

Yalda knows they’re referring to the patch of ghoulification along his back. “But you said lots of people in the Wasteland wouldn’t mind?” At the same time, he’s not so naive as to not understand their concerns.

“Yeah, lots won’t. But some will. And we don’t know for sure the people here won’t.”

“We just don’t want you to get hurt, ya know?”

“Make sure you keep your pistol on you.”

Yalda doesn’t much care for the 10mm in his pack, but he does know how to use it. Nodding, he promises Butch and Tate, “I’ll be careful.”

Tate huffs, running his fingers through his hair. “Okay, okay. I mean, we said you could stay here if you wanted and we mean it. It’s been a long trip.”

“Just don’t be fucking stupid.”

Yalda nods. Butch and Tate tell him to head back towards the settlement, then. They’re going to travel to Diamond City to talk to this ‘Piper Wright,’ who Vishnu said they should talk to for leads. They each hug him in turn before walking over to where Jackson is waiting by the Vertibird. They’re going to leave the Bird behind, but they still have provisions to collect from inside.

Keeping his fingers laced together, Yalda heads towards the bridge, where Preston Garvey waits to show him to the settlement. 

Preston introduces Yalda to Sturges, a broad, friendly man with dark hair and a kind face. Yalda likes him almost immediately, the way he smiles when he talks, his unfamiliar accent, and how his thick, calloused fingers are covered in grease. 

“So, Preston says you have some mechanical skill?” Sturges asks, wiping his hands with a soft cloth.

“Yes,” Yalda claps his hands together, “I worked in power systems for the Brotherhood.”

“On power armor?” Sturges asks.

“No, no, generators, furnaces, ah, things like that.”

“Useful,” Preston leans against the garage support, arms crossed over his chest. 

Yalda turns to face him, but looks away quickly, the tops of his ears growing warm. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Well then,” Sturges drawls, “maybe you could take a look at our current power setup, if you want to make yourself useful? I’ve cobbled together a couple of small generators, just to get the lights working and the radios on. But I’m not quite sure they’re running as efficiently as they could be? Failing that, we probably have the materials to scrap together a new one?”

“Yes!” Yalda beams, “I can take a look.”

Preston laughs, “Don’t overwork him on his first day. Besides, he’s traveled pretty far to get here.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” this time it’s easier to look at Preston, though he’s no less handsome. Yalda knows he can’t be quite this silly. How did Tate put it? Desperate. He can’t be so desperate. Besides, he can’t be thinking about that now, having someone else touch him. Not with the ghoulification creeping along his flesh. Butch and Tate were very clear about that. He needs to be careful with other people. Not all are accepting. They’d agreed to leave him in Sanctuary for the time being, provided he be careful. 

And he wants to prove to them both that he can be self-sufficient. He doesn’t need them hovering around him constantly.

“Well,” Preston uncrosses his arms, “I’m going to see if Marcy needs any help. She’s heading out on a supply run in the morning.” He tips his hat towards Yalda, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, check on how you’re settling in?”

Oh, shit, now his cheeks are hot too. “Yes, of course,” Yalda replies.

\--

Yalda likes working on the generators. Struges hasn’t done a bad job with them, not at all, but there are places where improvements can be made. Swapping some materials for a better fit, grinding down some of the components so that they spin better. Yalda pushes his hair out of his forehead before clambering up to his feet.

He crosses the street back to the garage. Sturges said he’s welcome to rifle around in the workbenches and storage boxes for materials he might need. 

Not finding Sturges in the garage, or back by his terminal, Yalda starts poking through the workbenches himself. Absentmindedly, he starts humming to himself. Sturges’ organization makes perfect sense to him, metals, plastics, glasses, smaller, more advanced components, all sectioned out.

Yalda finds what tools he needs, along with a few lengths of copper wire, in case he cuts too close on the existing coil. 

Working meticulously, Yalda eats up his afternoon with his fingers inside of machines. The Commonwealth is warm during the day, warmer than he’s used to. He rolls up his sleeves to the elbows, wiping away sweat with his shoulder.

“Hello?” A soft voice breaks his concentration.

“Hmm? Oh! Can I help you?” Yalda smiles. 

The voice belongs to a young girl, perhaps ten years old, with olive skin and her hair in looping curls. There are holes in the knees of her jeans, stained raw with dirt. Her hands are dirty too. She carries a spade against her shoulder.

The girl wrinkles her nose, “They said you are with the Brotherhood?”

“Ah,” Yalda hesitates. He knows that Vishnu Weiss and Preston Garvey destroyed the Prydwen. He knows the Brotherhood were less than welcome in the Commonwealth. But this girl cannot be a danger. And everyone at Sanctuary knows they arrived in a stolen Vertibird. “Yes. I was, but I left.” He grabs a towel to wipe his hands.

She stands up a little straighter, arms dropped to her side, but her grip still firm on her shovel. “I am Squire Gillian Panagakos, assigned to the Prydwen, under the direct command of Knight Vargas.” She snaps her feet together.

Yalda smiles softly at her. “I was a Scribe, ah, at Starfield, but now I’m just Yalda.” He wants to ask her how it is she survived, how she came to live at Sanctuary? But right now, she stares at him, her lips slightly parted. 

“I don’t know Starfield,” she crinkles her nose. “Did Knight Weiss kill your friends too? He killed my mother.”

Yalda frowns, “No. Ah, I had to leave the Brotherhood.” 

“Why?” she asks.

He can’t tell her. “My friends helped me leave. But don’t worry, no one got hurt.” Yalda winces slightly. That’s not technically true, and the patchy scar across his back, just above where his skin is turning, attests to the day they left Starfield. When he ran, out of sheer panic, one of his fellow Scribes shot in him the back.

“Do you miss them?”

Not once has anyone asked him this question. Not Jackson, who spent her entire life with the Brotherhood of Steel, but left of her own volition. Not Butch, who was taken from his home because of his value as a programmer. Not Tate, who was shot and left for dead in the sand of the opposite ocean. 

“Yes, I do.”

\--

Preston comes to retrieve Yalda, once the sun has begun to set. Yalda hurries through his final repairs to the last generator. They’ll need the power to turn on the spotlights for the evening. 

“I’ll be done in just a moment,” Yalda assures, fitting the casing back into place. “I’m sorry it took so long to get done.

Preston has shucked his coat, his arms stretching the fabric of his undershirt pleasingly. Don’t stare! Yalda keeps his hands steady as he finishes up. 

Laughing, Preston tells him, “I don’t think Sturges thought you’d get them all done in one day. He won’t have much more for you to do.”

Yalda rushes through a stream of hedges and excuses, “Oh! But his work was very good. I only had a few small adjustments to make. Ah, I wouldn’t have thought. Not that he isn’t very skilled, he obviously is. But hopefully this will keep things running more smoothly. That is, if you still don’t want the third generator? I could build it tomorrow. If the pieces…”

Preston laughs again, “Why don’t we start with dinner. And worry about that tomorrow?”

They walk back to the garage, a lean man in his mid-thirties is working over the stove inside, open cans scattered across the countertop as he dumps them one by one into the steaming pot. It's all pre-War canned foods, which means rads. 

Butch and Tate left Yalda with a stash of radaway and rad-x, but they’re still not sure if taking them or not taking them is best for Yalda. They don't know anything, really. That's something else they're trying to take care of in the Commonwealth, actually finding a ghoul or doctor who will know more about ghouls. If they fail here, they know someone further south who may be able to help. A Doctor Barrows.

But, for now, Yalda is content enough to eat, trying not to worry about the radiation. Preston calls the other man Jun, then apologizes for not introducing Yalda to everyone earlier.

“It's alright,” Yalda smiles, “just, everyone has been very kind.”

There isn’t enough space for everyone to sit to eat, so they mostly stand around the garage, enjoying the Spring air. Yalda takes his bowl and sits at the edge of the garage, his boots in the dirt in front of him and his back to the support beam. At first, Preston sits next to him, his hands wrapped around the warmth of the bowl. He has scars across his knuckles.

Preston doesn't stay at Yalda’s side for long, though, dividing his time among the residents of Sanctuary. A woman, Jun’s wife, is leaving on a supply run in the morning. And Gillian begs to be allowed to accompany her.

“It might be dangerous,” Marcy warns.

“I know that,” Gillian rolls her eyes, “I'm not a baby! I know how to shoot already. I can be helpful.”

Preston frowns at her comment. But from the looks of it, Gillian barely acknowledges his presence. 

“Marcy, the decision is yours, of course, to make,” Preston has finished his meal. Rolling a cigarette between his hands, he makes no move to light it. 

When Preston speaks, Gillian turns sharply, “Of course it's Marcy’s decision, no one asked you,” the girl growls. “But you, of all people, should know I can shoot people,” she casts her eyes back to Marcy, all stern sweetness again. “Please?”

“And the trip is long. Are you going to be able to walk? The brahmin can't hold the supplies and your weight,” Marcy dips her fork back into her stew.

“Anything is better than staying here,” Gillian is insistent. 

Sturges adds himself to the conversation with ease. “We’re not all bad, are we?”

Gillian looks conflicted, if only for a moment, her mouth dropping open. “You aren't, but I like Marcy best.”

Sturges smiles and shrugs his shoulders, leaning down to take Gillian’s empty bowl from her hands. The girl doesn't have the same sort of animosity towards Sturges that she does towards Preston, or the uneasiness she displayed in front of Yalda earlier.

“Alright,” Marcy concedes, her face pinched, “you can come. Make sure you bring a pistol and good shoes.”

“Yes!” Gillian runs off towards the barracks, Marcy calling after her that they're not leaving until the morning. But the girl is so excited, Yalda doubts she hears a word.

Yalda pushes himself up off the ground when he sees Struges collecting dishes from other residents and hurries to help. He takes bowls from two women who have just finished, a man with silvery hair, whose face doesn't look much over forty, and Mama Murphy, who smiles and calls him a ‘beautiful child.’ He nearly corrects her. He’ll be twenty-five this Summer. The same day Tate will turn thirty. So he's hardly a child. But Mama Murphy calls all the residents of Sanctuary ‘child,’ or some other diminutive. So he stops himself from being rude. 

He shuffles the bowls and plates in his hands into the kitchen. Sturges tells him he doesn't need to help, he's got the dishes under control, but Yalda insists and Sturges hands him a towel to dry the dishes as he washes them.

Outside, Yalda can hear Vishnu Weiss’ voice. He’s missed dinner entirely. The big stew pot is empty.

“Adjusting alright?” Sturges asks.

“Everyone is so nice,” Yalda repeats like a mantra. They'd left Starfield months ago, but he hasn't had much interaction with people other than Butch and Tate and Jackson since then. And before? He'd only really spoken to other Scribes. Knights too, but less so. He hadn't left Starfield since he arrived at the age of six, a tattered, broken up little child.

Sturges smiles, warmly pleasing, “Wasn't expecting it?”

“I suppose not.” Yalda is meticulous with his assigned task, making sure each dish is perfectly dry before stacking it by type, plates together, then bowls, spoons and forks. Nothing matches.

“Well if anyone gives you trouble, just let me know,” Sturges winks at him, in a friendly sort of way. “I certainly owe you for that work on the generators.”

“I'm happy to help,” Yalda is sincere. 

Preston waits for them in the doorway, “No need to rush, just I want to show Yalda to his cot.”

Sturges’ hands are still soapy-wet, but they're nearly through with cleaning. “I can show him once we’re done here?”

“Sure, sure,” Preston says, and Yalda can't help but have his heart drop a little. It's terribly selfish. Sturges has been very kind. But it would be a lie to say he doesn't enjoy spending time with Preston too, even if he does make Yalda slightly nervous. “I'm going hunting in the morning. Jun says we could do with another round to make jerky, just to be on the safe side.”

Sturges nods, wiping off his hands now that he's finished washing. Yalda has two more plates and one bowl to dry. “Who are you taking with you?”

“Chrissa. She did well last time. Real light step, decent aim. She’ll only get better.”

Sturges and Preston continue their conversation well after Yalda has finished with the dishes. Out of habit, he tries to stick his hands into the oversized pockets of his robes, though he hasn’t worn them for weeks. He ends up with his hands awkwardly at his sides, because they don’t really fit in the front pockets of his jeans.

The three of them walk over to the barracks together, though it’s not terribly late. Preston shows Yalda to his cot, asking him if he’ll be alright? The days are longer now, so if he’d like to see the rest of the settlement, he’s more than welcome.

Yalda wonders if it’s an invitation. If it is, he accepts. Preston looks slightly startled, but agrees to show him around. 

“Most everything was rubble when we arrived last year,” Preston explains, “but you can see we’ve managed to strip about half of the old homes down to the foundations. There was more than enough raw materials to patch up the garage and build the barracks.”

“It’s really beautiful,” Yalda compliments, though the ruins that remain are still terribly ugly. “What you’ve been able to accomplish, I mean.”

Preston smiles, “I wish I could have been more help in the rebuilding process. But Sturges has done a fine job of coordinating everything. I’m not much of a planner, myself.”

They head back up the hill, Preston nodding towards one house. The front door is new, and the sides hastily patched, but for the most part, the structure looks original. “That’s Vishnu’s home, from before the War. He kept telling us to trash it, but now I think he’s glad we didn’t.”

“Before the War?” Yalda questions.

“Right, you don’t know the whole of it. Well,” Preston crinkles his nose, “Vault 111 was a cryogenic freezing facility. All the subjects were frozen when the bombs fell. Vishnu was the only one who survived. Well, he and his son,” shaking his head, Preston pauses.

“So...he was born two-hundred-ten years ago?”

“Two-hundred-forty-five or so, yeah. Seems impossible, right?”

“Yeah.” Yalda stares at the door. It’s painted bright red and looks utterly out of place in the dust-brown of the Wasteland. 

“In any case, I’ve got to make an early start of it in the morning. Better for hunting.”

“Oh!” Yalda apologizes profusely, taking hold of both of Preston’s hands while littering “Sorry, sorry!" every other word. 

Preston smiles, says it’s fine really. Only they should be getting back. When Yalda realizes they’re still holding hands, he drops Preston’s wrists abruptly, lacing his own fingers together instead.


	3. Learning New Skills Four Steps at a Time

Preston wakes early enough to see Marcy and Gillian off. The girl, to this day, does little but scowl at him. That’s alright. He deserves it. Not that he would take back what he and Vishnu did. Never. But Gillian has every right to be angry. At the very least, she hasn’t run off. Preston...doesn’t know what he would do if harm were to come to her.

Though she has a laser pistol lashed to her hip, running comically far down her leg, she doesn’t draw it on Preston as he and Marcy bid each other goodbye. Marcy expects to return in about twelve days, bringing supplies down to Jamaica Plain and back up through Graygarden. That will give them plenty in terms of crops until their own plants are ripe for harvest. 

Preston knows all of this already, but confirming with Marcy makes him feel better. He tips his hat at her and Gillian before leaving to meet up with Chrissa. 

A woman of about twenty-seven, Chrissa joined Sanctuary in the deep of winter along with her partner, Jascia. She’s short and thick and moves beautifully. Preston has taken her out before to hunt, and her step is light and careful, as to not startle the radstags. She wears her bright turquoise hair tied up in a tight bun, strands frizzing out like a halo around her head. When she moved to Sanctuary, her hair was fuchsia. 

She’s chewing gum when Preston greets her, but she spits it out at the treeline as to not make excessive noise. Preston shows her in the dirt where several twigs have snapped, and they follow up the trail.

With the low grass cover of the irradiated soil, the stags generally stay close enough to settlements to try and snap up scraps. Sanctuary hasn’t been inhabited long enough for the deer to get the idea that they may be at risk from humans.

Chrissa stays in step with him as they move further and further from the settlement, tracking the subtle clues left behind. When Preston spots warm dung, he knows they’re close enough that they should draw their weapons.

He’s switched his preferred laser musket for a conventional hunting rifle. He likes the gun less, but they can’t run the risk of ashing the stag. Chrissa carries one as well, though a bit nicer than Preston’s. Jascia has been working at the benches more and more since work completed on the teleporter two months back.

There’s a flicker of movement up ahead, a radstag dipping its head to the ground, then back up to chew. Preston taps Chrissa on the shoulder, pointing at the stag’s position. He wants her to take the first shot. Better that one of the settlers is able to lead the hunting party from now on, in case Preston is called away.

Crouching, Chrissa gets her rifle into position. She’s strong and heavy enough that the kickback shouldn’t deter her much from getting a second shot off, if she needs it. Preston only plans to fire if it looks like the deer might get away.

She lines up her shot and takes it, hitting the stag clean in the chest. Two more animals skitter off, leaving their herdmate behind. The second shot from Chrissa’s gun is enough to fell the deer and they both run towards it. Chrissa draws her pistol to finish it off with a shot to the brain at close range. They wait for the carcass to stop moving.

“Want to try your hand at butchering too?” Preston asks, pushing the brim of his hat up to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Getting too warm for his jacket now that the sun has been up for a couple of hours.

“Yeah, need a knife though.”

Preston pulls his knife from his waistband, handing it handle-first to Chrissa. 

\--

By the time they make it back to Sanctuary, the rest of the settlement is awake. Vishnu greets them, dressed and pressed and ready to move. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow and his hair is a carefully constructed mess. He seems to spend more time on it, now that it’s cut short. Politely, Vishnu asks Chrissa if he can borrow Preston for a moment. She already knows how to split up the meat between the fridge and the drying racks. 

“What’s up?” Preston asks.

Vishnu offers him a cigarette and a lighter. Once they’re both taken care of, Vishnu explains. “I need to head to the Institute, probably a couple of days.”

Preston nods, “Railroad?”

“No, no, just, if I don’t check in,” Vishnu shrugs. Preston knows the tightrope they still walk. Destroying the Prydwen has put Vishnu in the Institute’s good graces, but other than that, he’s unsure how much work Vishnu has put into keeping them happy. It’s temporary. Vishnu promises this is temporary. Just until they have a better idea of how to destroy key functions and bring the Institute down, once and for all. Sturges is already questioning plans that do not yet exist, worried about the loss of life. Preston worries too. But Vishnu won’t be able to do it himself. At the very least, they’ve got to get Preston in too.

“What do you need from me?” Preston asks.

Vishnu claps him on the shoulder. “Nothing specific. I don’t want to interfere with your plans, the Minutemen should always come first for you, but,” he smiles. “About that kid.”

“Yalda?” 

“Yeah. I don’t want to say I don’t trust our new friends. But I don’t trust our new friends.”

Preston finishes off his cigarette, dragging a new one out of his pack. Vishnu still hasn’t finished his first. “They left us with their weakest? So either they’re stupid-”

“Or he’s a spy,” Vishnu finishes.

Nodding, Preston taps off his ash. “I’ll keep an eye on him, best I can.”

“Still, don’t let that interrupt if something else comes up that needs your attention. If he’s a problem, I’ll fix the damage when I get back.”

“For what it’s worth,” Preston adds, “if Tate is who he says he is, he’s going to be a handful in any case.”

“It’s been ten years since anyone has seen him, right? ‘The Lone Wanderer.’ But you think he’s telling the truth?”

Preston shrugs, “He’s the right age, and they’ve got those Pipboys. But I don’t know. All I ever heard were rumors.”

“Yeah? What kind of rumors?”

“That he cleared out a slaver den, top to bottom. Just him and this ghoul bodyguard? That he decapitated an Enclave General with a single punch. And-” Preston hesitates. This last tall tale will only make Vishnu more suspicious. “That he died when he activated the purifier.”

“So, he shouldn’t even be alive?”

“No one was there but the Brotherhood of Steel. They ran that whole operation. If they wanted to invent a Lone Wanderer out of whole cloth...they could.”

Vishnu nods, “Keep an eye on the Scribe.”

Preston will.

\-- 

Yalda sits on the floor of the garage, legs tucked up underneath him while he works. Armed with an array of Struges’ tools fanned out around him, his hands move as if by magic, knowing where each nut and bolt and plate lies without looking down.

Preston watches him for long minutes. 

Absorbed in his task, Yalda doesn’t look up, humming to himself. His shirt is too big on his narrow frame, falls too long, pooling around his waist.

The generator takes shape, piece by piece. Preston knows he should say something, rather than stare. Try to make conversation, maybe? He really isn’t suited for this sort of task, but he knows why Vishnu left him to vet Yalda. The deeper they go, the fewer people they can really trust. Nick and Robert are already gone. No one is sure when they’ll come back, if they’ll come back, having taken the boat North.

But he can’t help but think this is an assignment better suited to Piper’s skill set? But she’s back in Diamond City for the week, spending time with Nat on her birthday and tending to the paper. Preston can’t begrudge her the time.

“Almost done?” Preston asks.

Yalda looks up suddenly, smiling bright. His bangs are in his eyes again. He really should cut his hair. The way he wears it is impractical. “Maybe another hour? I want to make sure everything is perfect.”

“Of course,” Preston doesn’t really have much more to say and Yalda quietly goes back to his work. He also doesn’t show any signs of wanting Preston to leave. Preston sits on the other side of the generator, letting his knees splay open in the circle of his arms, cinched off around his shins. Now that the hunting is done, he’s free for the rest of the day. 

Resuming his humming, Yalda doesn’t once look up at Preston. His cheeks are flushed in concentration, his hands steady with his work. 

“Ah, would you mind helping me move it?” Yalda asks once he’s done. “Sturges said I could get him but, since you’re here?”

“Sure, sure,” Preston picks his hat up off the floor, putting it back on his head. Together they bend at the knees, hoisting the generator up on the count of three. Yalda’s scrawny, sure, but strong enough to handle half the weight. Preston takes a step backwards, when Yalda steps forward. It’s slow going, and honestly, they could have gotten this done faster had Struges taken Yalda’s place, but they make it to the spot two foundations down that has already been cleared for the generator to sit. Preston isn’t sure what Sturges plans on building here, only that he wanted the generator.

“Thank you so much,” Yalda says, tucking a strand of his hair back behind his ear. The motion smears grease along the side of his face. “Ah,” Yalda looks down at his stained hands, “I guess I should go clean up. Oh! But I should put everything away first!” He darts away, leaving Preston behind.

\--

After dinner, Preston invites Yalda on a walk. Seems the best way to keep track of him is to keep him close, right? 

“Shouldn’t I help with the dishes?” Yalda asks, three plates already in his hands.

Preston takes them from his grip, handing them off to Jascia. It’s her turn to put in the work. “We have a system, so don’t worry.”

Yalda tilts his head slightly, agreeing to the walk around the settlement. Preston would take the route even in the absence of Yalda, feeling safer with at least one round of scouting after dinner. Really, the spotlights and the turrets do more to protect Sanctuary than Preston can manage, he’s just one man, but there is a familiar security in making the rounds himself, when he’s here.

Falling into step beside him, Yalda keeps his fingers laced together. The cords and bracelets around his wrist are thick, climbing up his forearm. Preston wants to ask about them, but he’s not sure that will yield anything useful.

“How do you know the Lone Wanderer?” Preston winces slightly at his own question. Perhaps it is too obvious.

But Yalda is open in his response, pulling his hands apart to gesture while he speaks. “Oh, I didn’t really know him as um, ‘the Lone Wanderer,’ I guess I found out later but…” They continue their walk on the outside perimeter of Sanctuary. The spotlights come on as the sun vanishes. “But I knew Butch first. The Brotherhood,” Yalda thinks over his phrasing. “They kidnapped Butch. And I was assigned to be his sponsor when he arrived. Tate didn’t come until later...and I didn’t know he was Butch’s husband. But they, they wanted to get out of Starfield. And they convinced me I needed to leave too.”

“Why? Why did you need to leave?” Preston’s question is sincere. He needs to know for certain that the group of them aren’t still aligned with the Brotherhood. But he also needs to figure out if Tate is who he says he is. 

Yalda shakes his head, “I can’t tell you.”

Well, this doesn’t solve a damn thing. Preston is certain he’s terrible at subterfuge.


	4. The Suit and Tie Won't Make You Any More Charming

Within four days, Sturges runs out of mechanical tasks for Yalda to perform. It may be below his skill level, but the only work that remains is to try and beat out the steel recovered from old automobiles into flat plates that can be used as walls for the new utility structure. Sturges wants to eventually move all the workbenches properly indoors. Build a fume hood for the chemstation too. And lots of storage. On his terminal, he shows Yalda the plans for what he hopes to build just down the street. 

“I’m not sure yet if we’ll scrap this garage when it’s finished. The kitchen will be hard to move. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” rocking back in his chair, Sturges crosses his arms over his chest. “But right now, we still need walls.”

Yalda agrees to help with the manual labor of pounding out the plates. Most of the settlers are still working on getting their crops situated, now that the ground has thawed. He’s not certain he’ll be able to put in hours of labor, if he has the endurance for it, but he’ll do his best.

Sturges helps him drag one of the battered car doors out into the open, far enough away from the gardens that he won’t disturb them. They go back to the scrap pile for a second door for Struges to work on at the same time. With hammers in hand, they pound out the steel. It’s slow going, but Yalda at least finds comfort in the fact he can see his progress. The metal transforms under his ministrations, becoming smoother, flatter, more luminous. 

His arms start to tire and his pace slows, but he keeps up with the work until Preston greets them, sandwiches for them both in hand. “What did I tell you about overworking yourselves?” The comment appears directed at Struges, not at him.

Shrugging, Struges admits, “Nice to have the help. Suppose I shouldn’t wear him too thin?”

Yalda says, “I like keeping busy.”

They eat their sandwiches and Preston excuses himself when they’re finished. He has to get back to the others. See if there’s anything they need. Yalda wants to pretend that Preston comes to eat lunch with them on his account, instead of Struges’. But that can’t possibly be true. 

\--

After dinner, Preston asks Yalda if he would like to walk again? It’s Kyle’s turn to do the dishes, the man with silver hair and black fingernails. He has scars around his throat, but smiles a great deal, even if he talks very little.

Yalda says yes, without hesitation, because he knows already that it’s Kyle’s turn to do the dishes. And he starts to believe taking the evening rounds with Preston is something quite useful in its own right, even if he’s a terrible shot, even if there never is anything to shoot at.

Preston wears his musket over his shoulder and his hat tipped back on his head. Today was too warm for his jacket, left behind on the hook in the garage. They don’t speak for a long time, only the sound of their footsteps and the fading noise of the others as they talk and tear reach Yalda’s ears.

Once they’re beyond the tattered homes, Preston finally opens his mouth. “Tell me about yourself?”

Yalda wrings his hands, “I’m not very interesting.”

“I’m interested,” Preston urges. 

“Oh, well,” their pace slows, “What do you want to know?”

“Well,” Preston hesitates, “where are you from? I mean, ‘Canada,’ right? But Canada was huge. Is huge.”

Yalda nods, “Oh! I’m from, well, I was found in Yaletown. Um, I think it used to be called Vancouver? On the Pacific Ocean.”

“You were found? You’re an orphan, then?”

“Yes,” Yalda admits, though he has little sadness about it now. “A Brotherhood of Steel patrol found me. Took me in. I was about six? I can’t really remember my father, but I know my mother had black hair, and her skin was darker than mine. And she could sing.”

Preston nods, “She must have loved you?”

“I think she did,” Yalda smiles. “But I was alone...for awhile, before the Brotherhood took me. They made me a Squire, and I learned to draw. And they asked me to draw machines, so I did.”

“Do you draw anything else?” The question makes Yalda’s lungs flutter. To have someone so genuinely interested in his work is a delight. Really.

Yalda fidgets with the nest of cords on his wrist. “Birds sometimes. Lately, since leaving Starfield, I’ve been drawing plants too. They’re ugly, but sort of pretty too. Would you want to see?”

They stop for a moment so Preston can take the time to light his cigarette. The orange ember at the end is brighter than the last remnants of the sun. The spotlights click on, humming with energy conjured from thin air. Well, Yalda knows better than that. It’s not really thin air. But sometimes, he likes to believe they are magic. That he and the others who can build them are sorcerers in their own right. 

“I’d like that,” Preston finally responds.

\--

There isn’t time to show Preston his sketches until the next evening. Yalda spends the day pounding steel by himself, while Struges works on blueprints. His arms are still sore from yesterday and he makes little progress. Instead he thinks too long about Preston’s knuckles as he curls his hand around the end of his cigarette to light it.

Before the others storm the barracks for bed, he shows Preston his sketchbook. Most of his drawings are for work. Tasks he was assigned but never completed, still whirring around in his brain. But a few are of birds, mostly crows. But he saw robins too. And a blackbird, that had red tips to its wings. But Yalda has no way to render color, so he can only shade.

“They’re beautiful,” Preston says. “I mean, you’re very talented.”

Yalda smiles.

They walk the perimeter of Sanctuary again, silent until they reach the very edge of the settlement. This time, Yalda speaks first, asking Preston to tell him something about himself, this time.

“I’m not terribly interesting.”

They both laugh when they realize their circles of repetition. 

“I’m interested,” Yalda assures, ducking his head so Preston can’t see the warmth on his cheeks. But it’s probably too dark, in any case.

“I enlisted with the Minutemen when I was seventeen,” Preston shakes his head, “I wanted to make a difference in this world.”

“It’s very noble of you.” If asked, Yalda would give the same answer for why he was so fiercely loyal to the Brotherhood. But that loyalty made him blind to the cracks in the foundations. Even now, he’s not sure he would be able to see them for himself.

“Someone has to look out for the people of the Commonwealth,” Preston shakes his head. “I know you were Brotherhood, Yalda. And I know you must have believed in them, maybe you still do. But what they were inflicting upon the people of the Commonwealth. It wasn’t right.”

Yalda’s mouth is full of burnt sugar-promises never kept. “What did they do?”

Preston’s lips draw together. “We had a small farming settlement, just East of here, at Tenpines Bluff. Only a few settlers, but it was a wonderful position for scouting. A few mutfruit trees, a well. They’d been living on that hill well before the Minutemen offered to help defend them, supply them.” Preston runs his hand down his face, “Maybe they would still be alive if we had left them well alone. But,” he hesitates, “I doubt it. We should have done more, though. I should have done more, to protect them.”

“What did they do?” Yalda repeats, though the dread in his stomach keeps on knotting. Over and over until his lungs are crushed against the back of his throat, until he cannot breathe.

“The Brotherhood said that they only needed the harvest. That the settlement was now under their ‘protection,’ instead of ours. I should have been there...when the settlers refused to cooperate, a Knight threw one of them from the hill. His spine snapped on the way down. The other, Mara, she ran. She ran all the way back to Sanctuary. At least, they let her go.”

Yalda has no response, no justification for what the Brotherhood did. Even as they may be separated by a continent, he feels the reverberations down his spine. As if he threw the settler from the hill himself, though he lacks the strength and the will to do such a thing.

They walk in silence for some time, before Preston says they better head back.

\-- 

It’s routine now, their nightly walk. Preston doesn’t ask, but Yalda follows him, then they walk side by side, into the darkness. 

He wants to reach out, brush his fingertips against Preston’s arm, twine their fingers together as they walk. But he still cannot quite find the courage. Soon, though, Yalda promises himself. Soon, he’ll reach out.

They talk about a great many things, some of little consequence. One night, Yalda hums for Preston, when he asks what that tune is at the back of his throat. It’s one he remembers from his mother, though the words are long gone. Preston says he likes it.

Preston tells Yalda he wishes he could do more, that he could be everywhere at once, for the people who depend on the Minutemen.

“But you’re only one man,” Yalda soothes.

Preston responds, “I wish knowing that would help.”

They come to the end of their nightly loop when Preston asks if Yalda would like to go again? There’s one more thing he wants to say.

Yalda’s chest constricts, he reaches out, but Preston steps away, unconcerned. They take two steps more, three, and four.

“I’m leaving for the Castle tomorrow. I have obligations there.”

“Oh,” Yalda concedes, “Yes, of course.” He’s heard a great deal about the Castle by now, from Preston. A fortified base of operations on the water. If all else fails, they may retreat there to hold off the Institute, or the Brotherhood, or whatever the Wastes may throw at them.

“There’s something I should tell you, before I go.”

They stop here, the furthest point on their route around Sanctuary, where the light is the dimmest. Where the darkness may take them. Yalda does not want to admit that he could be afraid. Not that he is afraid, because Preston is here.

“Vishnu wanted me to watch you. Figure out if you were a Brotherhood spy.”

Instinctually, Yalda takes a step back. It hadn’t...no...Preston’s interest in him, all this time. “But…”

“Yalda, I don’t think you’re a spy. I don’t.”

Frozen when he stands, Yalda doesn’t care if Preston thinks him a traitor. He replays each of their lovely, looping conversations. Every moment Preston smiled at him. Every increment of their growing intimacy. It hasn’t been real.

“I wanted to tell you, because I’m really shit at this. I don’t want to lie to you. I want you to know what I did. And I’m sorry. I just. I wanted you to know before I left.”

Yalda swallows, his hands shake. “But...I thought….I thought….you and I…”

“Oh,” even in the darkness, Yalda can see the whites of Preston’s eyes widen. “Yalda, I didn’t mean...ah, let me try this.” Taking a step towards Yalda, Preston wraps his hands over Yalda’s wrists, dragging until their hands fold into each other’s “Don’t think for a moment that I didn’t want to be here. That I haven’t enjoyed this.” He brushes his thumbs over the backs of Yalda’s hands.

Yalda knows Preston tells the truth. It’s easy enough to see across the lines of his face.

“Take me with you?” Yalda pleads, quite suddenly.

“What?”

“To the Castle, take me with you. I want to see.”

Preston tilts his head to one side, smiling softly, “Okay.”


	5. Half Measures Now Available for Total Commitment

Preston remembers seeing magnetic tape at the Super-Duper Mart. The last time he and Vishnu scav’ed the place, they hadn't thought much of it. A good number of rolls in a box in a back closet. At the time, they hadn't a use for any of it and left the boxes as they found them. Now, Hera, the chief radio technician at the Castle, has asked about recording past broadcasts. She thinks that they can ship out the tapes to other radio towers, broaden the stretch of their communications well before they'd be able to put enough bodies on the ground for proper recruitment.

Getting the tapes isn't urgent, but the Mart on the way over to the Castle, so Preston takes the slight detour into the ruins of Lexington. For the most part, the raiders, who used to run thick through Lexington, have been cleared from the streets, but that doesn't mean they don't haunt the buildings.

While he understands that raiders are simply people trying to survive in the Commonwealth, same as any other, their tendency to violence is unacceptable. He won't search them out, but if attacked first, he is ready to defend.

Yalda has a borrowed rifle slung over his shoulder, though he expresses hesitance at using it. “I don't have much practice.” But his little 10mm pistol won't do them much good in a real firefight. Preston is surprised how little combat training Yalda has, considering he's spent almost his whole life in the Brotherhood.

“Most of us, the Scribes, didn't leave Starfield,” Yalda says.

Preston feels like he knows a lot about Starfield and nothing at all about Starfield. He knows Yalda lived there from the age of six until this Winter. He knows it is in Canada, near the Pacific Ocean. He knows the Lone Wanderer and his husband were taken there against their will. He feels like he knows the layout of the compound, the barracks, the workshop, the high, chain-link fences. But he also feels he's missing something.

“There were Field Scribes, of course,” Yalda explains, “but they were mostly medics. The researchers and engineers, like me, didn't leave often.”

“But what exactly did you do there?”

“I told you!” Yalda bounces on the balls of his feet as they walk “I worked in power and energy solutions.”

“No, I mean,” Preston explains, “what was the point of Starfield? What was your mission?” He won't pretend to have an intimate knowledge of Brotherhood operations. What he does know is based on their behavior in the Commonwealth, rumors from the Capital. They were here to face the Institute, and now most all are dead.

Yalda looks at his feet, tugs at his wrist. “We were a research facility. I know some of the Scribes were supposed to know a lot about botany, you know, crop scientists? Ah, but I don't know much about their work. I wasn't trained for that.”

It doesn't add up, when Preston really thinks about it. Oh, having a research facility dedicated to re-planting the Wasteland, clean food and water, being able to feed an army, that all makes sense. It even makes sense that the Brotherhood would be interested, though it doesn't really follow their through-line of recovering and hoarding the most advanced pre-War tech they can get their mits on. What really doesn't make sense is Yalda. If you have a child, a fresh and brilliant mind, to train from the ground up, why not educate him in the same skills as your objective? 

And Butch, the Lone Wanderer’s husband, he's not an agriculturist either. He'd mentioned, off-hand, that he's a computer programmer. 

Preston doesn't think Yalda is lying about himself, or what happened at the Brotherhood base. He just thinks that none of it makes much sense when he considers all the moving parts.

They reach the rear door of the Super-Duper Mart. Everything is still quiet. But they need to be prepared for resistance. Last time, there were ghouls inside, and you can never be sure with ghouls that they stay dead, or you clear them all. Sometimes, a whole pack of them can sleep through a firefight, only to awaken when the coast seems clear.

“Okay, stay behind me, keep your eyes and ears open. We don't need to waste time. I know exactly where the tapes are.”

Yalda nods sharply, pulling his rifle down into his hands.

“Don't take unnecessary shots either. There might be ghouls, and we don't want to wake them, if it can be avoided.”

At the word “ghoul” Yalda’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. He looks terrified, his pupils growing, blotting out the warmer brown of his eyes with black. Right, Brotherhood, he's been taught that ghouls, even those not feral, are abominations. Hell, he may have never even seen a ghoul, or at least, not since he was very small, given his long isolation at Starfield.

“It's okay,” Preston assures, “they're dangerous, but easy to kill, easier than raiders, as long as they don't swarm. And we won't let them swarm us. That's why we’re going to be be quiet. Okay?”

Yalda turns his eyes away, “Okay.”

Preston hesitates, “Do you want to wait outside?” He can do this alone. He'd rather not, in case something happens, it's best to have back-up, even if Yalda isn't skilled in combat. 

“No,” Yalda’s answer is firm.

Trying the door handle, Preston finds it unlocked. Cautiously, he swings the door open, checking the floor ahead for traps. With no signs of tripwires or lasers, he takes a soft step over the threshold, then another. Once inside, he gestures for Yalda to follow. “Stay close.”

They creep down the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched. Preston’s not sure that makes a bit of difference, ghouls don't appear to see well, responding more to noise than anything else. He can feel the heat of Yalda just behind him, quiet as they move.

Crossing through the back office, Preston scans the room for threats. Sometimes ghouls stack together on the floor, as if they're looking for warmth in each other. He doesn't know if they find it.

The room looks clear and Preston stands up straighter. Keeping his voice low, he tells Yalda he's free to take anything he might want or need, as long as he can carry it. But stay alert, just because there aren't visible dangers inside the room, doesn't mean that they won't be just outside the door.

Yalda runs his fingers over the keyboard of the only working terminal, his gaze alternating from the two doors, one back out the way they came, the other out to the floor of the supermarket.

Preston swings open the closet door, relieved to find the tapes where he last saw them. Dragging the box out, he takes the time to discard the ones that look damaged, by water, or impact, or time. He comes away with fourteen that look intact, shoving them into his pack. They're not heavy, and they don't take up much room. 

Yalda sits in front of the terminal, scrolling through files. Preston touches him on the shoulder and Yalda starts, looking up at Preston. 

“Anything interesting?” Preston asks. He’s never been one to search in terminal files. He’s better with tangible things. Objects he can hold in his hands, find immediate use for.

“There was a shipment of supplies for the pharmacy that arrived the day the bombs fell.”

Preston shrugs, “Probably picked over by raiders or scavengers already.”

Yalda shakes his head, “I don’t think so. Um,” he taps his finger to the monitor, “So, it looks like the assistant manager wanted to hide part of the shipment. He was going to resell it. Ah, I think I can find it.”

Torn, Preston isn’t sure. A cache of untouched medical supplies could prove useful. But he doubts that they’ll be able to find something so precious untouched after so many years.

“Okay, let’s look,” maybe it is worth the risk. And Yalda seems so confident. 

“There should be a trap door behind the freezer case.”

Yalda still lets Preston lead as they open the door out to the supermarket floor. The space is silent and empty, but that doesn’t mean that it will stay empty. Preston remembers the freezer case, up along one wall, with a healthy amount of space between it and the nearest shelving unit. He keeps them behind the deli counter as they cross the first several yards towards the wall. So far, so good.

They have to leave cover to make the next few feet, but then, they’re at the case. Preston peaks his head out to get a look down the closest two aisles. There’s a lump in the closest aisle that Preston can’t identify from a distance. Could be ghouls. But, for now, they’re still.

He leads them forward, taking Yalda by the wrist to keep him close. It’s Yalda who opens the freezer door, gently wheeling back the metal rack so they can step inside.

The freezer is no colder than the rest of the building, the cooling system having long expired. Yalda drops to his hands and knees, running his long, bony fingers along the ground. He finds the lip to a hatch and tugs it open. Preston looks back out to the aisle, making sure nothing is in pursuit. 

Inside the hatch is a ladder, maybe leading to old service tunnels? Yalda looks pleased, sticking his legs down into the hole to get his feet onto the rungs of the ladder. 

“Be careful,” Preston urges. 

“Don’t worry, I can see the bottom.” Yalda disappears down the hatch while Preston stands guard.

There’s a sound, not from him or Yalda, but from somewhere, echoing through the ventilation ducts. Maybe just the building settling, maybe it’s routine. But it doesn’t matter because Preston can hear the stirring that follows. The dry hiss of ghouls awakening, cracking their bones as they push up off the floor. Their footsteps are heavy and graceless as they start moving along the aisles. They haven’t seen Preston yet. He needs to make a decision.

He could fire on them if they come too close, yes. But that could alert others to their position. There might be another, back way out of the freezer case, but Preston isn’t sure, and Yalda is still down in the tunnel.

When the first ghoul rounds the corner, heading towards the freezer, Preston decides, stepping down onto the ladder. Once he’s far enough in, he starts pulling the hatch shut, “Can this be opened from the inside?” he asks Yalda below.

“Yes.”

Knowing they’ll be able to get out, Preston lets the hatch close above them. Waiting this out seems reasonable. The ghouls, finding nothing, should settle back down before too long.

He’s still on the ladder, Yalda somewhere below him. 

“What’s going on?” Yalda questions. The storage unit is totally dark, something Preston hadn’t expected. He takes the next few rungs down, trying to find the floor. 

“Ghouls, give them time and they’ll fall back asleep.” His foot taps against solid surface and he comes off the ladder, only to find himself chest-to-chest with Yalda. Yalda’s long hair brushes against his nose. “Ah, Yalda?”

“It’s not very wide. I should have told you.” Yalda’s breath falls against Preston’s neck every time he breathes. 

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Preston can feel the entire length of Yalda’s body against his now. They just have to wait this out. Preston isn’t sure where he should put his hands, though, so he lets them fall limply to his sides. But Yalda’s hands are moving in the darkness, skittering all around, unsure. 

“Are you alright?” Preston asks. He has a pretty good idea what is going on from the sharp breath Yalda draws at the question. The Scribe is getting warmer by the minute. 

“Ah, yes, sorry.” But his hands still haven’t found a place to rest. Preston tries to lift his hands to get Yalda’s wrists, to put them somewhere, but in the dark they have to bump around for a minute, trying to locate what is where. Preston ends up with his back against the wall, Yalda’s hair in his mouth. 

Finally Yalda’s hands settle down, on either side of Preston’s hips. They’re not insistent, or demanding, or anything like that. They just come to rest. “Sorry,” Yalda mumbles. 

“Don’t be,” Preston assures. 

Yalda rests his head against Preston’s shoulder. Preston likes the weight of it, and how Yalda’s fingers start to curl. He can’t forget about the ghouls above. Paying attention to their noise should be his priority. But he draws his hands up, puts them around Yalda too, holding him close. 

Long minutes elapse. The scratching of the ghouls up above dies down. They probably never saw Preston and Yalda, just looking for a quiet place to settle. As the ghouls grow quiet, Yalda’s breathing sounds louder in comparison. 

“I think it’s safe,” almost absentmindedly, Preston skids his hand up Yalda’s side, bringing it higher, until he cups the side of Yalda’s face. His jacket sleeve skims against the wall.

It's Yalda who comes up on the balls of his feet, touches his lips to Preston’s, warm and soft, slightly sweet. Yalda's hands clench tightly in the fabric of Preston’s overcoat. With a sharp yank, Yalda pulls Preston forward. They only have about a half step of space before Yalda’s back hits the opposite wall. There are words at the back of Yalda’s throat, but Preston can't decipher them, lost in the flow of blood that pounds between his ears. There's silence, but even in his gentle quietness, Yalda sounds a storm.


	6. Tremors

The Castle is like nothing Yalda has ever seen. Then again, he hasn’t seen much. But the hulking stone walls surrounding the central courtyard, the massive radio tower at the center, the thick pillars, and imposing artillery, all of it makes him feel very tiny in comparison. 

Preston squeezes his hand before releasing, stepping away to speak with the men and women who rush to greet him. Yalda hangs back, keeping his hands clutched tightly around the straps of his pack.

The Minutemen update Preston on what has happened since he’s been away. Someone called “the Atom Cats” should arrive shortly with an order that was placed last time Preston came through. Preston smokes while he listens to each and every item, nodding in understanding, but saying very little. Yalda wonders if he should stand next to him, or if it’s best to stay back.

Once the briefings are completed, Preston looks over his shoulder, gesturing for Yalda to follow. “Sorry about that. I’ve told them before, that I trust their decisions. But they still feel like they should check in.”

“So,” Yalda looks back and forth across the expanse of the courtyard. “Are you the Elder?”

Preston laughs, “We don’t have an ‘Elder.’ But we do have a General. I'll introduce you to her, when she gets back.” Leading the way, Preston takes them past a row of cots, tucked under the vaulted aisle, to a corner room. A staircase just outside the door leads to the battlements above. Preston pushes open the door, letting Yalda through first.

The room is sparsely decorated, but densely packed. An old wooden desk is pressed up against one wall, an Old World American flag hung above. Against the desk is a single cot, wedged in before hitting the corner. Other than that, the room is filled with building materials: breeze-blocks, sheets of steel, sundry plastics stacked together for later processing. While the room is by no means small, its function seems more a storage closet than a living space. 

“This is my office,” Preston gives a lopsided smile. “I'm not here enough to justify keeping it to myself.” He inserts a key into one of the desk drawers. Inside are mostly cigarettes, all the same pack, with gold foil on the inside, and old, half-used lighters. There's a bottle of whiskey and a weathered side-arm. Preston pulls out a pack and locks the drawer back. “I don't mean to hoard, but, sometimes you develop a taste for something in particular.”

Yalda nods, though he can't much say he understands. He's accustomed to consuming assigned rations with little deference to his own desires.

“I really should look through these reports,” Preston pulls out his desk chair to sit down. “I don't mean to trouble you. But if you could take those tapes to Hera? And the medical supplies can go to Franklin, over in the clinic. Hera should be at the radio tower. If not, just ask around.”

“Oh!” Yalda flutters his hands, “of course.”

Before Yalda can turn to leave the room, Preston catches him by the wrist, rubbing his thumb over Yalda’s pulse point. Dipping forward, Preston kisses him, briefly, but without provocation. Yalda presses his lips back sharply, not wishing to part. When Preston draws away, he's smiling. “We’ll talk, tonight, okay?”

Yalda nods.

They haven't done that yet, talked. Not since they kissed in the grocery store, not since they've begun holding hands as they walk, not since Yalda has come up to kiss Preston, again and again. Always sweetly met, but only very rarely initiated from the other side.

And the thing is, Yalda’s accustomed to it. Perhaps he's a little surprised Preston has tolerated his affections for as long as he has. It's taken three days to travel from Sanctuary to the Castle. They've stopped with some frequency to look for supplies, take scouting notes. Yalda has sketched a little, both crumbling ruins and strangely intact structures. He's enjoyed these days, almost like a fantasy. One that can't hold. It never has before. Nothing has deviated from his usual pattern. Preston will tire of him. Sometimes, it's before sex, sometimes after. But they always grow tired. 

Oh.

This time it must be different, because he can't...he'd thought of it, now that they've reached the Castle, to see how far Preston will let him push. If they might touch each other, share a bed? He'd let Preston have sex with him, if Preston wants to. He'd put his mouth on Preston too, though Yalda worries he's not very good at it. He's heard the sounds Butch and Tate make when they're intimate. No one has ever made those sounds with him. No one has loved him, either.

But now, the risk would be too great. What if Preston wants him to undress? Butch and Tate told him not to let anyone see his back. He has to be careful.

Yalda finds Hera, a beautiful woman in her forties with her hair pinned high on her head, tendrils falling into her face. Her olive skin is blotchy on one side, from a burn across her forehead and cheek. When she smiles at him, the corners of her mouth wrinkle pleasantly.

“You're the one who came with Preston?” She asks.

“Yes! He asked me to bring you the tapes.” Yalda swings Preston’s pack around, rifling around inside for the tapes Hera requested. He hands her half of them, waiting for her to set them aside before delivering the rest. “Hopefully it's enough?”

“More than I could have hoped for.” She starts unwrapping the cellophane packaging from one of the tapes. “So when did you join the Minutemen?” she asks.

Yalda shakes his head, “Oh, I haven't. I was just staying at Sanctuary,” he explains, “and I wanted to come see…”

“Ah,” Hera keeps her eyes on her hands as she works setting up to record her broadcast. “And what do you think of the Castle so far?”

“It's very impressive,” Yalda says. “I don't know what I was expecting. But it's so large.”

There's a shout from the gates, “Incoming Vertibird!” 

Dropping her hands from the console, Hera stands, reaching for the alarm instead. The siren is louder than the sound of the approaching Bird. The whole Castle starts into motion. Sharp and loud. Far too chaotic for Yalda to focus on any one thing.

A hand falls on his shoulder, Preston’s voice out of breath, “Is that yours?” he asks.

“What?” Yalda barely responds.

“The Vertibird, is it yours?”

For the first time, Yalda looks up and out towards the Vertibird, already under fire. But it's not firing back. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus in the fading light before he realizes, “YES!”

Preston doesn't wait, running towards where the artillery is positioned and barking orders. “That Bird is a friendly! Hold fire.”

Yalda stays rooted in place. He'd left a note for Tate and Butch about where he was going. He didn't think it would be a problem, as long as he didn't go anywhere alone. And Preston wouldn't let anything happen to him. And normally Butch and Tate wouldn't use the Vertibird so close to a settlement like this. But then again, they had come in quite close to Sanctuary. No, oh no. He feels sick to his stomach because this is his fault.

But the gunfire quiets down, even as Preston keeps shouting. He calls for a medic to be ready, in case anyone aboard has suffered injuries. Pulling the medic with him, Preston runs to the gates, in the direction the Vertibird is landing.

Yalda runs too, finally broken from his daze. He leaves the pack behind.

Preston and the medic reach the Bird first, just as Yalda’s companions stumble out. “We have got to quit meeting like this,” Jackson scowls, climbing out of the pilot’s chair.

Expecting Tate to be furious, Yalda winces in anticipation. But instead of screaming, Tate runs from the helicopter bay, straight to Yalda. “Oh thank fuck, you're safe.”

And he actually, hand on heart, hugs Yalda.

Butch trots along behind, managing to ask, “You're okay?”

“Yeah,” Yalda’s voice returns. “I left you a note.”

“Of course you fucking left a note,” now some of the anger is seeping into Tate’s voice. “That's how we knew you were here. But like-”

“-we still didn't know you were alright. Or why you had left Sanctuary. Anything could have happened.”

Yalda wants to assure them that he's fine. He can take care of himself. But their visceral concern is so unexpected, he can't help but enjoy it, just a little. “I was with Preston the whole time. Promise.”

Tate finally disentangles from Yalda, leaning his back against Butch’s chest instead. Butch drapes his arms over Tate’s shoulders, holding him close. “We shouldn't have been gone so long-”

“-we should have taken you with us,” Butch finishes.

“Really,” Yalda smiles, “I'm glad I got to stay. I helped with the Sanctuary generators. And I traveled with Preston and it was really great.”

Tate tilts his head to one side, “Right, sure. Well what's important is you're okay.”

Preston, having dismissed the medic, steps in beside Yalda, “Did you find anything about your friend?”

A little wrinkle forms between Tate’s eyes, “Yeah. Good news. No one knows where they are now. But they've definitely been seen in Goodneighbor since the destruction of the Prydwen.”

Yalda relaxes a little. He knows Amata is important to both Butch and Tate. A friend from the Vault they were very close to. The idea she may have been in danger had been making them both sick. When they learned of the destruction of the Prydwen, he can only imagine how they felt.

“We've got some clues to work off of. But we need to resupply first,” Tate says.

Preston nods, “We can probably help you with that.”

Tate nods sharply, “We can pay.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Preston assures. 

Yalda already knows Tate will get his way.

“I don’t like being in debt. You can use the money to replace what we take. You have a revolution to fund,” Tate smiles, but there’s no brightness to it.

\--

Yalda eats his dinner sitting with Butch and Tate. Jackson is busy with the Minutemen’s Quartermaster, asking her about the distribution of heavy weapons in the Commonwealth, where she may be able to find a gatling laser, if there are places ammunition were stockpiled, even if they may be empty now. She’s trying to piece together a trail, but to where, Yalda doesn’t know.

Butch and Tate don’t say much during the meal, but once their stomachs are full, they drag Yalda off, before he has the chance to tell Preston where they’re going. Then again, he doesn’t know where they’re going.

Together, they walk out of the courtyard, up the stairs to the battlements. Butch and Tate hold hands, Yalda standing close to Butch’s side. He doesn’t protest following them blindly. He doesn’t ask why.

Once they’ve reached the top, Butch and Tate look both ways, checking the positions of the Minutemen on guard. There are three of them, armed with rifles at their shoulders. Butch tugs on Yalda’s sleeve, pulling him towards an empty corner. They’ll have some measure of privacy.

“Why did you leave Sanctuary?” Tate asks. 

Butch lights his cigarette. 

“I told you. Preston had to come here. And I wanted to go with him.”

“Fucking hell,” Tate drags his hand down the front of his face. They all keep their voices low, but the speed of their conversation increases. “Could you not think with your dick for like, a hot minute? Is that a thing you can do?”

Butch snickers, “Who’s talking?”

Tate mocks back, louder than he should “Who’s talking? Fuck you, Butch.”

Yalda folds his hands together, dipping his head. He didn’t mean to cause trouble.

“Listen,” Tate’s voice is gentler now. “Okay, so you want to fuck the guy. We get it.”

“No, no,” Yalda waves his hands, “I don’t mean.”

“What, you don’t want to fuck him?” Butch asks.

Yalda’s face flushes, “You make it sound so crude.”

Tate laughs, “Okay, fuck,” he shakes his head, black hair dropping in front of his eyes. “Thing is, it’s not like you can just fuck him, right?”

Yalda hisses through his teeth.

“Whatever, ‘make love,’” Tate makes scare quotes with his fingers. “We gotta make sure he’s...safe.”

“He’s very kind,” Yalda tries to stick his hands in his pockets, forgetting that his dress has none.

“Fucking hell,” Butch says, “Have you already sucked his dick?”

“No!” Yalda finds it impossible to stay quiet. “We just...ah, kissed. I guess.”

Tate and Butch look at each other, then back at Yalda.

“You’re an idiot, ya know?”

Yalda can’t argue with that.


	7. Exaggerated Earthquakes

The three men descend from the battlements, Yalda leading the way. His faded green dress puffs up as the air catches under the skirt. The Lone Wanderer is close on his heels, followed by Butch. They share a few words more at the bottom of the staircase before Butch and Tate break off, tugging at Yalda before they go.

When Yalda catches sight of Preston, he smiles, waving before taking a step towards him. Preston runs his fingers along the seams of his shirt sleeve, trying to keep his hands busy.

“Sorry about that,” Yalda offers.

“Are they alright?” Preston asks.

Yalda nods, “Yeah, they just worry about me. Um, you know, because...I think I remind them of when they came out of the vault. So they’re very protective.”

Preston can’t say he understands, not completely. That sort of isolation is foreign to him. His family is large, and welcoming, embedded in the fabric of the Commonwealth. It’s been almost two years since he saw his parents last. The farm tucked away out West, almost to Old State Line. But he sees cousins in passing, as he moves through the Minutemen’s settlements. They all tell him that he does good work. And his sister is going to have a baby soon. Her second. He probably won’t be there for the birth. She’s in Derryfield now, with her wife. And there won’t be time to travel. He’ll bring gifts though, when he makes the time. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Preston asks, unwilling to assume.

“Of course,” Yalda reaches his hand out, taking hold of Preston’s firmly. Preston wouldn’t dare deny him.

The sun is a little further gone than Preston would have liked. And maybe it would be better to have this conversation in his office. But maybe not. Maybe then Yalda would feel pressured. And he shouldn’t. So they take the stairs back up to the battlements, even though Yalda only just returned from up there.

Yalda stays pressed close to Preston’s side, their fingers laced together. The spring air is warm and so is Yalda. 

They walk the length of the battlements and back, passing the Minutemen on patrol. Each one tips their hat at Preston as he passes. He’s still not comfortable with leadership. At least Ronnie was able to take on the role of General seamlessly. 

He has to disentangle his hand from Yalda’s to light his cigarette, but just as quick he takes hold again. At Sanctuary, their walks were not so silent. But Preston worries he’ll choose the wrong words, though he means each and every one. He slides his thumb over the back of Yalda’s hand. 

“I said we should talk, so I suppose...we should talk.” Preston stops them along the path, leaning out over the edge, watching the ground below. When he turns to look at Yalda, his eyes are wide. “It’s not bad,” he corrects, “At least, I don’t think it is.”

Yalda stays ramrod straight, his arms hanging at his sides. The breeze off the water makes his hair fly up. “Oh, alright.”

“We should talk about what happened, at the Super-Duper Mart.”

“When I kissed you?” Yalda asks. And the phrasing of it is odd. Yes, that’s the moment Preston means. But Yalda’s choice of words implies Preston was less than a willing participant. 

“When we kissed, yes.”

Yalda nods shortly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No!” Preston interjects, “I wasn’t uncomfortable,” he laughs. “I was hoping we might be able to do it again, in fact.” His chest feels tight as he finally says it. But a good sort of tension, one worming its way through his body, looking for release, but coiling warmly until that time.

Yalda smiles brightly in the faded light. Pushing his hair away from his forehead, he replies, “I’d hope for that too.”

Pushing himself up off the stone, Preston steps towards Yalda, kissing him steadily, softly, at least at first. Yalda’s arms come up to his shoulders, wrapping his hands around the back of Preston’s neck to hold him in place as they share breaths. Pushing his tongue into Preston’s mouth, Yalda sets the pace, drawing and drawing until they both need air. When they break apart, Yalda laughs. 

“There’s something I want to ask, though,” Preston shakes his head. Yalda’s hands still around his shoulders. Without the sunlight, Yalda’s eyes are almost black. Preston knows his must look the same. He presses his palms against Yalda’s hips. “It’s a bit personal?”

Yalda nods, “Okay?”

Preston breathes deep. This shouldn’t be embarrassing. It’s a perfectly reasonable question to ask. Yalda likes him, he knows. Preston likes Yalda. He’s attracted to him. Preston assumes the attraction goes both ways. He’s begun to care quite deeply about Yalda’s well-being. None of these are sensations that should make Preston feel the least bit ashamed. But he’d like to know, before they go any further. 

“Have you been, with...someone before?” 

Yalda tilts his head. 

Preston tries again. “Sex, Yalda, have you had sex before?” Maybe that was too direct. Because Preston isn’t suggesting they have sex now, up here, on the battlements. Or even later tonight, in his office. Or possibly ever. Because Yalda maybe hasn’t thought of that, to this point. So, maybe it’s presumptuous to ask. But Preston will feel a hell of a lot better, knowing either way. Just, the way Yalda talks sometimes, Preston just doesn’t know the extent of his isolation. And he is so very sweet, the way he kisses. 

When Yalda bursts into laughter, almost doubling over, Preston stands in stunned silence.

“Sorry! Oh,” Yalda flutters his hands, “Sorry, sorry! I shouldn’t laugh. Ah,” he holds his fingers in front of his lips. “Preston...I’m twenty-four years old.”

“So?” Preston realizes he didn’t know Yalda’s exact age, but he perhaps underestimated a bit. 

“Um, so yes, Preston. I’ve been intimate before. Ah, with a few different men. Just...Knights at Starfield. I don’t think any of them cared for me much, but...yes.” He twines his fingers together. “Does that bother you?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Preston admits, “No, of course not. I’ve uh...been intimate as well.” He doesn’t provide further details, and Yalda doesn’t ask for them.

“Ah, just, I’m not...we can’t...yet. Not yet.” Yalda’s eyes dart side to side. 

Great, he has made Yalda uncomfortable. That isn’t his intention. “No, I didn’t mean--just, thank you for telling me. I didn’t want to assume.”

They finish their walk around the perimeter. Preston hopes there will be more, tomorrow night, and the next. He’s not sure how long they’ll remain at the Castle. And Yalda may want to leave in a few days, once Butch, Tate, and Jackson have resupplied. He may decide to leave with his friends. But, until then, Preston hopes Yalda will walk with him. 

He sees Yalda to the barracks. Unsurprisingly, Butch and Tate don’t appear to be there. Jackson is curled in one of the cots, her back to the room. 

“Goodnight,” Preston says.

Yalda kisses him goodnight, though it is chaste and brief. After their earlier conversation, they both are hesitant to try anything more. 

“Goodnight.”

When Preston turns to return to his office, he could swear he sees movement. Someone or something ducking behind the nearest pillar. But when he goes to check, there’s nothing but empty air.

\--

Yalda is late to breakfast. But the Lone Wanderer is not, sliding up to Preston’s side at the long mess table, his bowl of dry sugar bombs clattering to the table. 

“I’ve never liked Brahmin milk,” Tate shrugs, dipping his fingers into the cereal bowl and ignoring his spoon. He shoves a fistful of bombs into his mouth, chewing loudly.

Preston hasn’t seen him separated from his husband, well...ever. They’re normally joined at the hip, finishing each other's sentences. Focusing on his cereal, Preston doesn’t pay much mind to the Lone Wanderer, though he has many questions. 

“Hey, so,” Tate starts after he’s finished swallowing his mouthful, “Have you been to Goodneighbor before?”

“Yes,” Preston blinks, “Of course.”

“What do you think of it?” Tate pops a single piece of cereal into his mouth, letting it dissolve instead of chewing. 

“Everyone deserves a home. Someplace they can feel safe, and secure.” Preston is honest, “For people turned away from Diamond City, Goodneighbor offered them the best alternative in the Commonwealth for a long time.”

Tate nods, “Not now?”

Preston doesn’t know what Tate is really asking. “I’d like to think we, the Minutemen, are making it safer to live outside the city now. That we can start building up other settlements. Not everyone who lives in Goodneighbor is a criminal, I would never suggest that, but-”

“But some of them are?”

“There are reasons they were turned away from Diamond City.”

Tate’s still appraising him, searching for something more. “Do you know their mayor?”

“Hancock?”

“Yeah.”

Preston nods, “I’ve met him, several times. Vishnu knows him better than I do.”

“I’m not asking Vishnu, I’m asking you. What do you think of him?”

Letting his spoon drop into his now-empty bowl, Preston reaches for his back pocket, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“Nah.”

They both push away from the table, heading away from where others are still eating. Not polite to smoke where people eat. 

“He’s a curious man, I suppose. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of his drug habit.”

Tate shrugs.

“And he maybe lets violence rule a bit too much inside Goodneighbor. You know, the first time Vishnu and I met him, he stabbed a man in front of us.”

“So, honestly, would you trust him?”

Preston furrows his brow. “We don’t agree, on a number of things. Methods, mostly. But he’s an honest man. He doesn’t break his promises. And he wants to make the Commonwealth a better place. I wouldn’t leave Vishnu alone with him for ten minutes. But I would trust him to keep his promises.”

“Okay, sure.” Tate reaches up to pat Preston on the shoulder, turning away without saying goodbye.

\--

Yalda comes to visit Preston’s office around eleven. He knocks at the door, waiting to be let in. His hair is tucked back behind his ears, though it looks like the ends have been trimmed. 

“Are you busy?” Yalda asks, his hands folded in front of him.

“I’m just wrapping something up. Why don’t you sit down while I finish?” Preston has a scaving mission set up for this afternoon, but there are a few hours until then. Cricket should be through tomorrow, so he wants to be able to put in decent offers on a lot of old pistols she’s been lugging around. It’ll be a good chance to get a bulk of spare parts at once. 

There’s only one chair in the room, so Yalda sits cross-legged on the bed. He takes his sketchbook from his pack, cracking it open to draw while Preston works. Preston manages a glace of it. It looks like he’s been drawing the exterior of the Castle from memory. It’s quite remarkable, the amount of detail Yalda has already put into it.

For twenty minutes they say nothing, Preston drafting letters to send South, North, and West, out beyond the edges of the Commonwealth. He wants them to accompany Hera’s tapes. The scratch of Yalda’s pencil is more confident as he sketches.

Preston lifts his hands over his head as he finishes, cracking the tension from his shoulders. Yalda looks up from his notebook, smiling. “Have you finished?”

“I think so.” He considers having Yalda look over his letters. He’s certain Yalda is literate. Basic education must be standard in the Brotherhood. 

Yalda doesn’t move from his place on the bed, but he sets his notebook aside, his pencil stuck in between the pages. Preston steps to the side of the bed, intending to sit next to Yalda for a moment, decide what to do until Preston needs to leave. But Yalda tugs him down, so they crash together on the mattress. Preston doesn’t mind.

They rearrange themselves so they’re side by side. Yalda cranes forward to kiss him, his lips parting slightly, without hesitation. Preston drops his hand to Yalda’s waist, wrapping his palm around and squeezing. Shifting again, Yalda comes even closer, skimming his hand down the front of Preston’s shirt. The room is quiet other than the soft sounds escaping Yalda’s throat.

He tastes sweetly of sugar bombs, so he must have made breakfast after all. And Preston can feel his heartbeat racing through the fabric over his heart. Hopefully it’s not bothersome that he gets hard in his slacks, though Yalda has said he’s not ready yet. Preston can’t help that he responds. From what he can tell, their kissing is having a similar effect on Yalda, his skirt tenting at his groin. And hell if Preston doesn’t want to reach for the hem, run his hands over Yalda’s thighs, his stomach, his cock. He wants to. But he can wait, too.

By the time they stop they’re breathless, smiling back at each other from the sheets. Yalda runs his finger along Preston’s lips. “You’re so handsome.”

Preston’s cheeks can’t help but warm.

“And kind, and thoughtful, and brave.”

Preston laughs, “Now you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not!” Yalda is indignant. “But I suppose I shouldn’t keep you from lunch?”

“Suppose we’ll be missed if we don’t go?”

“Suppose so.”

\--

Preston is about to leave for the high school when Butch sneaks up on him. Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, he’s suddenly at Preston’s side. 

Though Butch’s hair is graying, Preston knows now that he and Tate are the same age, give or take. Tate will turn thirty this summer, Butch hit that milestone back in December. Yalda told him that he and Tate have the same birthday, just five years apart. Butch and Tate can be Yalda’s favorite topic of conversation. 

“Heard you were going scaving?”

Preston nods, “I am.”

“Wanting for company? I ain’t bad with a gun.” Butch already has a laser rifle slung over his shoulder and a smaller pistol at his hip. Looks like he’s already decided that he’s coming, whether or not Preston says yes. 

“Sure, sure.” 

“Cool.”

Though not particularly tall, Butch is broad and muscular. More so than the average Wastelander. Vault kids. He’s known a couple before. They’ve all been odd in their own way. The people over in Vault 81, most of them have never been to the surface, though the vault isn’t completely closed off anymore. But Butch and Tate, despite their ten years in the Wastes, seem even more foreign, out of place. When they’re together, it’s like they talk without talking. They talk a lot too, but there’s something more.

Butch does prove to be good with his rifle, able to pick targets off at a distance. 

He’s nimble too. Inside the high school, the stairway to the second floor is caved in. Butch throws his rifle back over his shoulder, climbing up a pile of rubble just under a hole in the ceiling. From atop the pile of debris, he hops up as high as he can, grabbing onto the lip of the floor above and hoisting himself through the hole.

“Gimme a sec, lettme see if I can find something to help you up.”

Preston isn’t so vain as to think he can replicate Butch’s steps. He can probably get onto the rubble pile, and he might be able to grab onto the floor above. But he probably doesn’t have the upper body strength to drag himself up. Not without a good grip on something. 

“I don't see anything, but the way to the next room is blocked off anyway. Gimme a minute, I'll toss anything valuable down.”

Butch comes up with a couple of boxes of ammunition, two tins of mentats, and a busted up pipe pistol. It's not much, but they've still got the nurse’s office on the ground floor to check out. Might be some more chems to be had.

Throwing down his pack first, Butch follows after, hopping through the hole and landing gracefully on his feet. His boots grind the gravel under them. “Maybe there's another way up,” Butch shrugs.

They haven't met anything much in terms of resistance. When a clutch of radroaches rear their heads, Butch flinches, but they manage to kick them away, fat thoraxes busting against the wall.

Making it to the nurse’s office, they start rifling through the drawers before Butch asks, “Hey, you ever been to the Slog?”

“Yes,” Preston says. “They've joined the Minutemen. I can't say I care much for tarberries, but they're not bad thrown into some vodka.”

Butch pulls three stimpaks from a first aid kit on the wall. When he's through, he sits down at the nurse’s terminal. “Anything to look out for if we go there?”

“Wiseman runs the place. He's stern, but fair. They were making a good go of things, even before joining up with the Minutemen. But they have frequent trouble with supermutants. It's the location. But they need the pool to grow the berries.”

Butch’s fingers fly across the terminal keys. On the floor, a safe pops open. 

“Yeah?” Butch leans over to fish some old-World bills out of the safe. There’s buffout in there as well. Butch tosses the bottle to Preston. “Anything else we should know?”

“Ah, Holly is particularly fond of Dandy Boys, if you need to sweeten her up.”

Narrowing his eyes, Butch responds, “Thanks.”


	8. No One is Really in Charge Here, So Stop Pretending We Know Where This is Going

Jackson pulls Yalda aside. He’s on his way to say goodnight to Preston when she tugs at his arm, yanking him into the open alcove. 

“Hey,” Jackson starts.

“Hey?” Yalda doesn’t like admitting that he’s still a bit in awe of Jackson. But her reputation preceded her arrival at Starfield, even if she was only a girl then, barely eighteen when she and her mother transferred in. But her name alone meant a great deal. It may still mean a great deal, especially if the name ‘Maxson’ has truly died.

She smells of cigarettes and the soap everyone at the Castle uses, harsh and utilitarian. “I need your help.”

Yalda is taken aback. There is so little he has to offer her, but he will do his best to oblige. “Of course.”

“Were you planning on sticking around here?” She wraps her hand around the pillar blocking them from the courtyard. Her nails are painted mint green.

“Yes?” Yalda frames it as a question for Jackson to answer.

“Listen, I'm trying to piece together what happened here.” She shakes her head, “Why the Brotherhood would act, out in the open, like this. I mean...I've read the reports that were sent out West, about the purifier down in D.C. And everyone, I mean everyone, in the Commonwealth knows about the Institute. But to business about the Prydwen? It's not how we operate.”

Yalda doesn't miss her mistake. “We.” They're not supposed to belong to the Brotherhood anymore. When they left with Butch and Tate? That was supposed to be the end of their affiliation with the order. But Yalda still feels it in his marrow, the call of responsibility. Oh, oh no, he would never turn against Butch and Tate now. Never, not after all they've done for him. But he still feels indebted to the Brotherhood too. And, like Jackson, he wants to know what happened here. 

“I agree...we were always so careful at Starfield,” he picks at the stone with his short nails.

“I need to start at Boston Airport. The Prydwen was docked above there. If there's any trail to be followed, I might as well look through the wreckage. They had some ground operations there too.”

Yalda nods, “How can I help?”

“It's not safe for me to go alone. I don't have eyes in the back of my head, you know? Butch and Tate are busy trying to track their friend. And I don't trust anyone else here. Hell, I don't know if I trust them with this.”

Yalda scrunches his nose. “They care about us a great deal.”

Jackson laughs, “They care about you, because you're cute.”

“That's not true,” Yalda protests.

“Fucking hell,” she's smiling in the dark. Though she won't admit to it, Jackson is kind, friendly. Only her time in the Brotherhood, being held up as the future of the order, should the Maxsons never again return to the West, has made her cautious. Now, maybe, the whole Wasteland could be hers to take. “Tell me though, seriously, are you fucking them?”

Yalda stutters, “No!”

“Come on,” there's laughter in her voice. “I know you tried to fuck Butch, back home. I can't say I blame you,” she whistles low.

Yalda’s ears grow hot. That seems like so long ago, though it has only been a matter of months. And he didn't know that Butch’s husband, that Tate, was still alive. It had been a mistake on his part. He'd just felt so alone. And with the rot creeping along his back, he'd been reckless too. Wanting someone else to know, even if it would spell his end. He'd thought, maybe...he hadn't known what he'd thought. Only that Butch was handsome and always so close.

“There's nothing there,” Yalda insists. “I'm not...with them.”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, you up for coming with me?”

Though it is a request, Yalda hears it as an order from his superior officer. He can't help it. “Of course.”

\--

Yalda gets up early to make modifications to his pistol. He hasn't fired it in a long while, not since reaching the Commonwealth. When they were traveling, he'd used it to shoot wildlife with Butch or Jackson, if they needed food. His contribution to the kill was always negligible, but his companions seemed to appreciate that he tried.

Though the weapon is small, there are the means at the Castle to make it more powerful. But more power means more recoil, and Yalda just isn't sure the trade off it worth it. Not when it takes him painfully long to aim already. He shuffles through the crates stacked up around the weapons workbench, trying to determine what he can manage. Maybe he can offset the recoil too, or modify the damage some other way. Switching to an energy weapon would negate some of the kickback, but ammunition is hard to come by. Shaking his head, he looks through the scrap boxes again.

“You're up early,” Hera comments.

Yalda turns to face Hera and Preston. They have watering cans in their hands, three of them are green and one fire engine red. They're off to tend to the crops, no doubt. The Minutemen don't grow much at the Castle, but enough that they can stay afloat if the supply lines get cut.

“Yes, Jackson wants to leave as soon as possible, so I don't have much time.”

Preston smiles warmly, “Don't let us keep you, then.”

“Ah,” Yalda’s hands are already dirty from rooting through the scrap metal. “Will you be busy, later, I mean, this morning, before we go?”

“I should be around. We’re still waiting on Cricket,” Preston assures.

“Right! Right, well, I'll see you before we leave, then.”

“Of course.” Unexpectedly, Preston takes a step forward, hands still occupied with the cans. He pecks at Yalda’s lips so shortly, so naturally, it leaves Yalda devastated.

\--

Jackson slings her rifle over her back before tossing a pack to Yalda. “Figure out what you need.” The bag is filled with rations, ammunition, and stims. Yalda transfers his gun from his pack to his hip, mixes the ammunition in together, and throws his spare clothes into the pack Jackson gave him. He puts two stims in the pocket of his jeans, so they’ll be close at hand.

It’s nine am and Jackson is ready to move. The trip to Boston Airport shouldn’t take long. They can just about see it across the water, when the haze isn’t too thick. But they’ll have to travel over the roads to reach it, eating up a considerable amount of time. But neither Jackson nor Yalda know much about boats and they need to leave the Bird for Tate and Butch.

The day will be warm, so Yalda shoves his jacket into his pack as well. With its contents arranged, it’s bursting at the seams. He takes the jacket back out, tying off the arms around his waist. 

“Yalda, Caroline,” Preston walks over, hands shoved into his pockets, to see them off. 

Butch and Tate come up behind him, their shoulders knocking into each other, hands wrapped together. Tate’s in long sleeves, but he has the right side rolled up to the elbow. 

“Preston, thanks for the supplies,” Jackson sticks out her hand to shake Preston’s. 

“No trouble, just keep an eye out for anything on that list. We could really use it,” Preston says. 

Jackson nods. No doubt she’s been given salvage items to look for in the wreckage. It’s the least they can do, if they’re going to go poking around in the carcass of the Prydwen anyway. 

Tugging at Yalda’s hip, Butch pulls him away, heading out towards the gate. Tate stays close too, but none of them speak until they’re out of earshot. Preston raises an eyebrow as Yalda is drawn away, but he keeps up his conversation with Jackson. 

“We may not be here when you get back,” Butch starts.

“Please, just, wait for us before you do anything.”

“What?” Yalda asks.

“With Preston Garvey. Just...wait,” Tate clarifies. 

“We’re not saying you can’t fuck-”

“Have sex with him,” Tate shakes his head. “Eventually. But you need to tell him before. Yeah?”

“And we want to be close, in case it goes bad.”

“He seems like a nice guy. And we’ve been talking to him. He’s not like, he doesn’t fucking hate ‘em or anything. But being alright knowing one and being alright sleeping with one are different things, okay?”

Yalda knows they are only concerned for his safety. And they’re probably right. He has to tell Preston that he’s going to be...that he is a ghoul. Not everywhere, not yet. But enough that it shows when his clothes are off. He’s been really careful thus far. It’s true, he needs Butch and Tate close, in case telling Preston goes badly. He doesn’t want to think about it going badly. He doesn’t want Preston to be that sort of man.

“Okay, okay I’ll wait for you to get back.”

“Good,” Butch nods, “and heads up, he’s looking at ya.”

Yalda sets his mouth before turning to face Preston. Casually as he can manage, he walks over to hug him goodbye. Preston wraps his arms around him, dipping his face to Yalda’s shoulder, “Stay safe.”

“I will,” Yalda promises.

\--

The trip to Boston Airport is uneventful, because they’re careful where they step, avoiding thatches of raiders, creeping around hollowed out buildings. The raiders don’t want a fight anymore than they do. No one is looking for trouble. So Jackson and Yalda don’t threaten, and the raiders don’t retaliate.

The longer they travel, the higher the sun gets and the warmer the pavement. Yalda’s skin warms in the sun. He’s already reached his warm-weather tan, shucking off the pallor of winter while working around Sanctuary. It’s deeper than it ever was at Starfield, where he mostly stayed indoors.

“Watch for ghouls,” Jackson warms, “Raiders too, I guess.”

The Prydwen lies in ashes, its ribs charred and broken open. The whole area is smeared with ash. As they step into the wreckage, it kicks up, stinging Yalda’s lungs. The earth below their feet is no warmer than the pavement of the streets, but it feels like lava beneath Yalda’s shoes, like it should be scorching hot. 

Jackson has a geiger counter in her shirt pocket. It starts buzzing as they step closer to the debris. Cursing, she pulls a bottle of rad-x from her pack, downing two and holding out the bottle to Yalda.

His heart stops. He still doesn’t know what the right answer is. Taking one pill in his hand, he passes the bottle back to Jackson. When she goes into her pack for water, Yalda shoves the pill in his pocket. Shit. He drinks the water too, feigning swallowing, before they continue on.

He’s not sure what Jackson hopes to find. Most everything that was in the ship is ruined, soldered by the heat and flames of the explosion. Nothing survived, save a few suits of power armor, recognizable, but unusable. They’re baked into the steel beams all around them. 

“Everything’s fucked,” Jackson curses. “Shit, maybe inside the airport.” She kicks at a piece of loose plastics, fused together in a tight ball. It skips across the uneven ground.

They fare a little better inside. A section of the roof is torn in by part of the airship having come down on it, but the fire temperature burned lower here. They’re careful not to disturb the careful arrangement of elements, lest everything comes crashing down on top of them. 

There’s a bank of terminals against one wall. Jackson sighs in relief. Maybe something is recoverable. But as she taps at the keyboard, the screen refuses to turn on.

“No power,” she comments. “Can you fix it?” Jackson specializes in computer systems. If anyone can coax information from a terminal, it would be her. But it’s got to turn on first. 

“Yeah, I have an idea.” Yalda leaves his coat behind on the table, but takes his pack, heading back out to the power armor. Hopefully he can find one with the fusion core accessible. 

Picking over the remains, he finds one suit that is frozen in the right position. He grips the latch to the fusion core, prying it open with his fingers. The pressure turns them raw-red, but he gets the compartment open, popping the core loose. He’s lucky there actually is one inside. From the weight of it alone, he can tell that there should be enough power left to get the terminal turned on for a couple of hours at least.

Heading back to the hanger, he thinks about what else he’ll need to find, copper wire, alligator clips.. A tin can could help, one wide enough to fit the core. He can insulate it with rubber, but that seems more work than it’s worth, given they’ll only need it a short period of time.

Jackson isn’t waiting for him, probably off searching the ruins for anything on Preston’s list. He doubts anything nefarious befell her, there was no noise, and he wasn’t gone long. Yalda sets about looking for what he needs.

“Is it working yet?” He hears Jackson call from the next room over. At least now he knows for certain she’s well.

“I need some more supplies!” he calls back.

“There’s a bunch of crap in here!” 

Jackson is already sorting through a cache of supplies. Most of it appears to be in good condition. It’s mostly small things, gears, capacitors, circuit boards, lots of useful items. He finds what he needs with little difficulty. Jackson looks back and forth between the crates and her list, trying to check off what she’s pulling for Preston.

“He should come back here with more people. We can’t carry all of this. And I don’t think he expected us to find it.”

Yalda nods, “Of course.”

Jackson narrows her eyes. “You know I’m not your commanding officer anymore, right?”

They’ve had iterations of this conversation half a dozen times already.

“I know.”

“But you still treat me like I am. Like I have some sort of power over you. But you get that right? That I never really did? I mean. I ranked higher, sure, but I didn’t earn it.”

“Of course you earned it,” Yalda keeps his hands busy, twisting the wires he’ll use to connect the makeshift battery to the terminal. 

“I was just born into the right family, is all.”

“But you’re brilliant!” Yalda objects. He’s seen some of her work. She overhauled all of the file systems at Starfield shortly after her arrival.

“So are you,” Jackson shrugs, “All I’m saying is we weren’t rewarded equally. The Brotherhood was never fair to you, or to me.”

Because Jackson isn’t his commanding officer, he leaves without excuse. He needs to make sure that the terminal will boot on, with the aid of the fusion core. It takes him several minutes more to splice together the old power cable with the copper wires, but when he’s finished, he hears the fans on the computer whirring to life. 

“I’ve done it,” he calls back to Caroline, “It’s on!”


	9. The Wasteland School for Chronological Masterminds

Cricket arrives in the late evening, her sundry wares piled high atop her pack Brahmin. She eyes Tate and Butch suspiciously, no doubt trying to get a handle on their disposition. Preston breaks the ice between them with polite introductions.

Once Cricket and Tate start talking caps, there’s no room left in the conversation for Preston and Butch, they excuse themselves, stepping away. Butch doesn’t break contact with Tate’s fingers until the last possible moment. Makes Preston wonder why he steps away at all. 

Butch offers his lighter when Preston takes out his pack of cigarettes. Out of politeness, he offers one to Butch, but his fingers are already stuck in his own pack. Butch tucks the box back into his shirt pocket before lighting his stick. “I should quit,” he comments.

“Why bother?” Preston asks, his mood bright. Though, it's not easy to be around Butch and Tate. He can’t pretend like it is. They’re nice enough, but entirely too strange. Stranger than Vishnu, in a lot of ways. 

Butch reaches his hands above his head, cracking his shoulders loudly. “Heard they kill you.”

“Lots of things can kill you,” Preston observes. Not all of them are obvious. Some of them are plenty obvious, coming like whispers and waves. Preston almost let himself drown in the Wastes. But he didn’t. He hasn’t. He won’t. At least, he can say that honestly today. When he licks his lips he can still taste Yalda on them. And when he looks towards the airport, the Prydwen isn’t there. That’s tangible, that absence. Preston doesn’t doubt he’s done something good.

Tomorrow he might not think the same. But for now, he’s content. 

Smiling wolfishly, Butch pulls his cigarette back out of his mouth. “We know.”

Preston shakes his head, maybe he doesn’t want to know. “So you’ll be off in the morning, then?”

“Nah, once Tate’s done we’ll bounce. Wearing out your hospitality already, ya know?”

“You’re welcome here,” Preston insists automatically.

Reaching out, Butch skims his fingers along the stone of the Castle’s walls, letting it scrape against the skin. His knuckles start bouncing. “Gotta find Amata.”

Preston smiles. They’re a bit one-track-minded. But that’s a good thing. They care deeply about their friends. He won’t begrudge them that.

“Listen, man,” Butch’s fists clench in his pockets, bulging the front of his jeans. He pulls them back out, grabbing his cigarette instead. “If you hurt Yalda, we’ll fucking kill you. Alright?”

The statement isn’t exactly shocking, but Preston can’t say it’s welcome either. He’s suspected that Tate and Butch don’t exactly approve of him. Or, at the very least, they aren’t sure. Talking to Butch now is oddly like speaking to Yalda’s father, or something. Asking permission to court his son. But Butch, despite his gray hairs, is only a couple of years younger than Preston, and Yalda is only a handful of years younger than Butch and Tate. Their chronologies are all mixed up. 

“I assure you, I have no ill intentions regarding Yalda,” Preston forces a smile, even though Butch isn’t watching, his eyes still trained straight ahead. 

“Well, yeah, just know it’s true, alright? That rumor, I know you’ve heard it.”

“Which one?” Preston asks for clarification. 

“That Tate took that Enclave fuck’s head clean off with one punch. And that was when he didn’t have the metal arm.” Butch snuffs out his cigarette in the dirt before offering his hand. “Just so we’re clear.”

Reaching out, Preston shakes Butch’s hand firmly, “We’re clear.”

\--

Butch’s warning, his threat, really, doesn’t put off Preston too bad. He knows they’re just looking out for their friend. They’re protective. And in this world, that isn’t always a bad thing. 

Besides, Preston knows himself. And he thinks he knows Yalda, who has always been straightforward with him, even as Preston may have been the one concealing the truth at first. And he doesn’t think he’s done anything thus far to make Yalda uncomfortable. He hopes Yalda is comfortable enough to tell him if they go too far. Preston thinks himself a gentleman.

Of course he wants more. And he suspects Yalda may want more as well. That they’re heading towards physical intimacy, towards trusting each other. Maybe they’ll get there. Maybe they won’t. But Preston won’t consider it time wasted. He’s happy enough for the time he gets with Yalda now.

So when Yalda and Caroline return from Boston Airport, Preston doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Yalda’s waist, pull him close, and kiss his lips, however briefly. They don’t need a big display out here, but the quiet reassurance warms his belly. 

When he pulls away, Yalda is smiling. Both he and Caroline have bundled up sheets, filled with additional scrap. Yalda holds onto his, so the fabric doesn’t come apart. “I should give this to Billie,” he blushes warmly. “Be right back.”

Billie has already gone to bed. Preston was just about to be on his way, after this patrol. He tips his hat to Caroline, who walks beside him, Yalda out in front. They dump their spoils on top of Billie’s station, she can sort through the salvage in the morning.

“There’s more where that came from too,” Caroline says, patting her back pocket for her cigarette pack. Preston offers her his lighter. “You should send a team, if you have the personnel.”

“I assumed it would be mostly picked over.”

“Nah,” Caroline shakes her head, “But send them with rad meds. Should be fine though.” 

As Caroline and Preston exchange information, Yalda laces his fingers in between Preston’s. Preston squeezes back. His fingers start curling inward, until his nails scrape against Preston’s palm, almost tickles.

Preston can’t commit to sending a party to check out the Airport until next week. He asks Caroline if she wants to lead, but she insists, “I’ve got to keep moving. Found some trails to follow. Places there might still be members hiding out.”

Furrowing his brow, Preston doesn’t want to get any more involved in her Brotherhood business than he can manage. Afterall, he’s one-half of the men who took down that blimp of theirs. Whole Wasteland fucking knows it too. As much as Caroline says she’s not with them anymore, she does a hell of an impersonation.

“When do you leave?” Preston asks. Yalda may decide to go with her.

“Need to sift through the information first,” Caroline hesitates. “Do you have a terminal I could use?”

He won’t refuse her request, “Ask Hera, our comms specialist. She can set you up with what you need in the morning.”

Caroline nods, giving her thanks before departing. Preston doesn’t want to admit it, but he breathes easier once she’s gone. He likes Caroline, he really does. When she’s not speaking about her mission. 

“Hey,” Yalda almost whispers from Preston’s side, their arms are pressed together, hands still woven. 

“Hey,” Preston smiles, kissing the side of Yalda’s head. He’s only a few inches shorter, but Yalda’s light frame makes it seem like more. “You must be tired?”

“Mmh,” Yalda nods into Preston’s shoulder, his hair sliding against the fabric of Preston’s jacket. He’s dead on his feet. 

“Want me to walk you to the barracks?”

Hesitating, Yalda finally asks, his voice quiet. “If we go, ah, nevermind, but...the bed is probably too small…”

“No, no,” Preston assures. “There’s space, ah, if you want to?”

Yalda shifts a little bit. “Yeah but, I have to keep my clothes on, yeah? You can wear what you’d like to bed...but…”

“Of course, let’s go.” Preston doesn’t mind supporting Yalda’s weight on the way back to his quarters. While he can shuffle his feet just fine, Yalda is clearly slipping into sleep. 

Once they get inside, Yalda asks if Preston minds turning around while he changes? Preston obliges, counting stone bricks in the wall and trying not to think too hard about what Yalda’s body must look like. Thin, for certain, and his arms are covered in fine, very dark hair, maybe it’s thicker on his chest? Are his ribs visible when he breathes? Preston wants to put his hands there, feel the pulse of Yalda living. 

“Okay, you can turn back around.” Yalda sits at the edge of the bed, dressed in a long white shirt and boxer shorts, no socks. His clothes are carefully folded on Preston’s desk chair. “My things aren’t in the way, are they?”

“No,” Preston assures. “Is it alright if I undress?”

Yalda nods, “Do you want me to turn away?” He pulls his feet up until they’re pressed to the bed frame. 

“You don’t have to. If you don’t want,” Preston’s mouth is dry.

“I’d like to see you, only it doesn’t seem fair.”

Preston shakes his head, exhaling heavily, “I’d like it, if you watched.”

Yalda smiles softly. He looks a little more awake now.

Preston doesn’t know how to make a show of undressing, or if that’s even what Yalda means. But he strips his shirt off, letting Yalda see his chest. There are scars, of course, some deeper than others, but none of much note. He knows the stories for most of them, but very few are interesting. 

Unlacing his boots, he holds down the heel with his toe to tug them off, then his socks. By the time he reaches for his belt, Preston can tell from Yalda’s eyes, the flush on his cheeks, that he’s aroused. Maybe Yalda doesn’t even realize it, when he pushes down on the start of his erection with his palm. But Preston can see it through the thin fabric of his boxers. 

Taking off his belt is simple, sliding the leather through the loops. But watching Yalda watch him back has made him hard, and he doesn’t want to offend. “I’m going to take off my pants now,” Preston warns.

“Do you want me to look away?” Yalda sound out of breath, as if he’s been running. 

“No,” Preston admits.

So Yalda doesn’t look away as Preston drops his pants to the floor, stepping out of them before snapping them up to throw over the dresser. He’ll put together wash tomorrow. Though they’ve said nothing, though they haven’t touched, Preston grows hard. Yalda must notice. 

He means to change his boxers, though he’ll shower in the morning. Wednesday, right? Yes, he takes his turn in the showers on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. To make sure there is enough water to go around. If they build another pump, they can move to four days a week, instead of three. 

Yalda told him, on one of their walks, that at Starfield they showered every day. And for a moment, Preston worries that Yalda will be off-put by his body. 

“I don’t mean to make you nervous,” Yalda still keeps his eyes straight ahead. “But you’re just so…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, but he smiles.

“Can I kiss you?” Preston doesn't mean to rush his words.

“Yes, of course…”

He does mean to rush towards Yalda, folding his body against Yalda’s smaller one, taking his chin in hand and pressing their lips together. Yalda tastes faintly of salt and blood. He's been chewing on his lips, bringing copper to the surface. Wrapping his arms around Preston’s neck, he drags both of them into bed, shifting about until Preston holds himself over Yalda. They kiss, but their hands do not wander. Preston keeps his against the mattress, supporting his weight as not to crush the body below his. Yalda presses his palms flat to Preston’s bare chest, letting heat seep between them, transferring through fingerprints.

Yalda opens his mouth. Breathing heavily, he doesn't ask for more, though through the thin fabric of both their boxers, there isn't a question, really, of their bodies’ desires. Preston bucks down with his hips, Yalda whining prettily beneath him. However slightly, Yalda parts his legs, grinding back up against Preston’s weight. They repeat, and then again, stealing friction without pushing any further. Preston touches his forehead to the mattress, just to the side of Yalda’s neck. Inhaling deeply, he can already smell Yalda on his sheets, distinct from the scent of his neck, his hair. He's already in between the fibers. 

“I'm sorry,” Yalda hisses, his body still pliant, twitching. “I can't, not yet.”

Preston smiles, his face still tucked against Yalda’s neck, “It’s alright. I shouldn't have pushed you so far.” Preston rolls to his side, bundles Yalda close to his chest. “Is this alright?”

Reaching behind his back, Yalda tugs down his shirt, though it already covers everything. “Yes, I like this,” Yalda mumbles against Preston’s chest.

He's still hard, but that will fade as he approaches sleep. The ache in his muscles is enough to tell him his body needs to rest. The puff of Yalda’s breath against his sternum is enough to lull him.

\--

Yalda takes to sleeping beside him each night. Preston takes to touching himself before Yalda comes to bed. It's not so hard to manage. 

Yalda works well with Hera. He's been making small improvements to their communications equipment, though he always apologizes he cannot do more. He doesn't actually know much about broadcasting, but some of the machines look familiar. When there is nothing more for him to do for Hera, he latches onto Billie instead, helping sort provisions, taking records of every piece of armor, every bullet, every copper strand, though the task is below his skill level, he seems to perform it with joy.

Preston helps with the crops, though they mostly just need watering now. They don't grow much food at the Castle, and Preston doesn't know much about agriculture. He starts planning his next route around the settlements. The people feel better when they see the Minutemen presence in the flesh in good times, not just at moments of crisis. He should visit the other settlements.

He's not sure it's wise of him to ask Yalda to join him? When he brought Yalda to the Castle, Butch and Tate panicked, swooping in with their Vertibird like a couple of knights in shining armor, ready to defend the honor of their friend. Perhaps it's better that Yalda stay behind. He seems happy, here.

But he seems happy with Preston too. So maybe, maybe, Preston can justify Yalda’s presence at his side, attributing it to more than mere selfishness.

\--

“Message for you,” Hera hands Preston the transcription. The paper is folded, as if for privacy, but Hera must already know what it says. 

“From?” He unfolds the note.

“Vishnu Weiss. Says he'd like to speak to you. But not here. You should read it.”

Preston thanks her, stepping away from the comm station. He's been warned about the Institute birds, that the Institute may have even more advanced means for tracking their movements. Vishnu knows that they always know where he is, so long as he wears his Pipboy. But he has little choice. If he takes it off, they’ll get suspicious too.

All the note says is that they should get some Power Noodles, which means making the trek to Diamond City. Preston already knows by now that Vishnu only ever wishes for him to join him if he has the time. And that Minutemen business should always come first. But as far as Preston is concerned, the Institute is Minutemen business. 

He tucks the note into the back pocket of his jeans. It's not so late that he couldn't depart for Diamond City today. 

Finding Yalda on the floor at the back of the provisioning closet, Preston watches him work. His skirt stretched out across his lap, he counts screws in batches of five, dropping them into a large glass jar every time he gets to fifty. The metal scrapes against the glass.

Preston clears his throat to draw attention to himself. Yalda looks up, asking how he can help before he sees it’s Preston. When he does, he smiles.

“Hello, Preston!” With his skirt weighted down with screws, he can't stand at the moment, so Preston sits across from him.

“I need to head to Diamond City. I don't know how long I'll be gone. But afterwards, I'll likely have to head to another settlement, rather than return here.”

Yalda’s face falls slightly. “Oh, can I not come?”

“Last time I moved you, your friends did not react well.”

Yalda holds his hands out in front of him, gesturing broadly, “It won't happen again, I promise! As long as they know I'm with you.”

Already wanting Yalda to accompany him, Preston is perhaps too easily convinced. “Can you be ready to go in an hour?”

“Yes!” Yalda exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I just have to pack a few things and change. It shouldn't be long.”

Preston leans forward to kiss the corner of Yalda’s mouth, before standing to ready himself.


	10. Confessions for the Confused

Yalda gives Hera two numbers: 271257 and 130758. He's not sure the messages will go through. He knows Butch and Tate can talk to each other this way, but he's never seen them talk to anyone else. She tries both, entering them into the terminal, and gets MESSAGE UNDELIVERABLE each time. So, instead, he writes a note, saying he's going to Diamond City with Preston, and they shouldn't worry. 

They probably will worry, but hopefully, not too much.

\--

Diamond City is beautiful, in its own way. In every way. 

Yalda has never seen so many people in one place before. Maybe the total number of people assigned to Starfield was close, but he Knights never stayed for long, so the compound always felt empty.

He stays close to Preston’s side, trying not to get distracted by the people, the colors, the movement. The rows of low houses, made of steel and wood and labor look so inviting. The density of people hurrying through the packed-earth streets makes him dizzy with excitement. Yalda wouldn't mind living in a place like this, so loud and full of life.

Two children run past them, no more than eight years of age. Yalda feels like running too, the way his lungs fill at the sight of them, so happy, and safe. He didn't think it possible. His own childhood was so different, before the Brotherhood rescued him. He barely remembers, but he knows he wasn't safe.

“Here we are,” Preston stops them short of the marketplace. Yalda tries to hide his disappointment. He would have liked to see the shops. There's nothing he particularly needs, but Tate gave him a bag of caps before he and Butch left the Castle. He's never traded on his own.

Preston knocks on the door of Publick Occurrences, waiting for an answer. A woman’s voice inside calls, “Come in!” and Preston opens the unlocked door.

The office inside is cluttered, stacked high with boxes of old newspapers, cartons of unused loose leaf, metal waste baskets filled with ballpoint pens. But the house smells strongly of strongly brewed tea as well. Though the weather is warm, there’s a steaming mug on the woman’s desk.

“Preston,” the young woman smiles, rising from her chair. Her feet are bare, hair piled high on the top of her head, tied up with an elastic. “Vishnu said you were coming.” She hugs Preston with a warm familiarity. “And you must be?” She tilts her head to one side.

“Yalda,” Preston supplies, “and this is Piper,” he makes introductions. “Yalda came in with the Lone Wanderer, didn't Vishnu tell you?”

Piper’s eyes go wide, “The Lone Wanderer is here? Wait...the kid from the Capital?” Her use of ‘kid’ is strange, Piper looks young, maybe Yalda’s age. “I'm going to murder Vishnu. What the hell?”

Preston shakes his head, “I don't know where the Wanderer is now. And he's not so much a kid anymore. He and his husband are looking for their friend. A woman named Amata.”

Piper scowls, “I met him! I had him in my office and didn’t know! And he told me that part, about his friend, but not that he was the fucking Lone Wanderer. Are you sure?” she rattles on.

“Yeah,” Preston is certain by now Butch and Tate aren't lying, “I'm sure.”

Throwing her hands up in frustration, Piper curses before coming back down. “Suppose you're looking for our favorite liar, huh?”

“He said we should get some noodles,” Preston shrugs.

Yalda keeps his hands folded together in front of him, trying to not get in the way while Preston and Piper talk about Vishnu’s whereabouts. He's in Diamond City. Piper saw him last night. Yalda hears the name ‘Danse’ for the first time. He doesn't miss how Preston recoils slightly at the name.

“So, he's back, then?”

“Did you expect him to stay away for long?” Piper drums her fingers against the edge of her desk. “We can hope and dream, but we can't actually stop them from being idiots.”

Preston frowns, “You're about the only one able to talk sense into Vishnu.”

“It's not my job to mind his personal life. Besides, it's not like you tried to stop them.”

“No one did,” Preston admits. “Danse isn't a bad man, neither is Vishnu...only…”

“They have a habit of bringing out the worst in each other, I know,” Piper shakes her head. “Maybe it will be different now.”

“Maybe,” there's hope in Preston’s voice. “I hope so.”

Piper smiles in return. “Well, you know how Vishnu is. He’ll turn up. Maybe try the marketplace?”

They leave their packs in Piper’s office. She tries to corner Yalda, ask him questions about Tate, though she never uses his name.

“Are the stories true, about Paradise Falls?” she asks, her hazel eyes sharp.

“Paradise Falls?”

“They say he cleared out the entire slaver population there. Just him and a big ghoul.”

Yalda tries to take a step back and ends up knocking into Piper’s coat rack. Preston catches the rack before it can topple over, then grabs Yalda’s shoulder to steady him.

“Piper,” Preston warns.

“What? That's one of the best rumors out there about the guy. And there are a lot of stories…”

Yalda stutters, “I don't know anything about a ghoul,” he's telling the truth. He doesn't know who Piper might be talking about. It's always just Butch and Tate. Tate and Butch. The two of them against the world. But people keep talking about Tate, what he did out here, ten years ago. And Yalda honestly doesn't know much about it. No one has ever told him.

“Come on, Yalda,” Preston guides him away, “we should go find Vishnu.”

Piper smiles as they leave, “I'll get the truth out of you yet!”

\--

Yalda likes the marketplace very much, filled with happy residents and efficient shopkeepers and just so very many people. A man in a letter jacket offers him a haircut for fifteen caps, and Yalda feels bad declining the offer. He's been growing out his hair since leaving Starfield. Maybe in another few months he’ll want it trimmed. But right now he likes the extra length. 

Preston indulges him, walking slowly along the storefronts, even though Vishnu Weiss is nowhere in sight. He lets Yalda browse the merchandise, asking if he sees anything he likes? Yalda tells him no, no, no. Besides, he has his own caps, well, Tate’s caps, if he does see anything. He can pay his own way. 

After circling the market, Preston suggests they try the bars. The Dugout first, then the one in the upper decks, failing that. Yalda keeps his hand tight in Preston’s hand.

The Dugout Inn is smells of smoke and sounds of chipped glassware, pleasant conversation, and hearty laughter, much of it form the bartender. Even though Yalda has only met Vishnu a couple of times, he's unmistakable, even from behind. His back is long and lean, his legs tangled around the barstool, trying to find a place to rest. One of his legs bounces, unceasingly.

Beside him sits another man, shorter than Vishnu, but broad and firm. He rolls a beer bottle between his hands. His dark, thick beard is neatly trimmed. He smiles when Vishnu laughs with the bartender, already pouring him another glass of amber liquid.

“Vishnu,” Preston alerts him to their presence.

Vishnu spins around on the barstool, de-tangling his legs to do so. He keeps his glass in one hand, resting the other on his companion’s thigh. The other man must be Danse. 

“Preston!” He stands, wrapping his free hand around Preston’s shoulder to pat him on the back. He kisses Preston on the cheek before withdrawing. “And Yalda! We’ll get a booth. What do you two want to drink?”

“Beer’s fine by me,” Preston smiles.

It takes Yalda a moment to realize they’re waiting for his order. “Ah, rum and nuka?” 

Vishnu smiles, “Good choice. I should introduce you.” The bartender is already working on their drinks, uncapping Preston’s beer. Reaching over, Vishnu grabs Danse’s hand. “Danse, this is Yalda, Yalda, Danse.” 

Danse isn't unfriendly, but when he stands, he's just so large it takes Yalda aback. He may be shorter than Vishnu by a bit, shorter than Preston by maybe an inch, but he's just so muscular, makes Yalda feel outright tiny in comparison.

“Hello, sir.” Yalda winces, he didn't mean to call Danse that. Just something about the way he holds himself. It makes Yalda think…

Danse narrows his eyes. Yeah, that was pretty weird. Yalda regrets his clumsy words a thousand times over already.

“Don't go too fast, little one,” the heavily accented bartender chides Yalda, setting his drink down. “I made it strong for you.”

Yalda doesn't know if he likes the sound of that, but he thanks the barkeep anyway. With their drinks in hand, the four of them make their way to an empty booth. Vishnu and Danse slide in side by side. Yalda ends up next to Preston, but across from Danse. Danse isn't subtle, looking at him again.

Without thinking about it really, Yalda brushes his fingers against his face. In a moment of sheer panic, he worries that the rot is showing. That he woke up this morning with a piece of flesh visible that gives everything away. But, no, he's careful, so careful to keep it covered. He can still wear short sleeves, his face is still clear. Last time Tate checked, the patch hadn't grown any bigger. That was more than a week ago, but Yalda is still diligent in checking best he can. He can't see his own back, but he can feel out the edges.

Preston and Vishnu chat about nothing in particular. How the preparations at the Castle are going; if there's any news out of Sanctuary; looks like the crops will come in well this year. Vishnu has no measure by which to judge, so he’ll take Preston’s word.

Yalda heeds the bartender’s advice to take his drink slow. It's not quite as sweet as he would like, but by no means does he mind the bite of the liquor, the way it hangs in his mouth. Danse finishes off his beer, asking Vishnu if he needs another drink too.

“No, love,” he smiles openly, “I promised to take Preston for noodles. Would you mind terribly entertaining Yalda for a bit? You could have dinner here? Or take him to the Taphouse?”

“We’re not dressed for the Taphouse,” Danse looks down at himself, then at Yalda. 

“Here is fine!” Yalda doesn't want to cause trouble. He has better clothes in his pack. But he doesn't want to hold up their plans just to change.

“We’ll figure it out,” Danse nods, before heading back to the bar.

Preston kisses his cheek before sliding out of the booth. “I'll find you later, alright? Danse is a good man. He won't let you get hurt.”

Yalda wants to point out that he doesn't need protection. But he doesn't know Diamond City either, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Danse returns to the booth with another beer and a rum and nuka for Yalda. “We’ll give them ten minutes, then we can get noodles if you want.”

Furrowing his brow, Yalda asks, “Don't they want to be left alone?”

Danse shakes his head, “Yeah, they do.”

There is a long silence between them. But the bar is noisy, so Yalda doesn't feel so alone. He runs his finger along the edge of the glass, trying to keep from saying something embarrassing.

“Why did you call me, ‘sir?’” Danse finally asks. His lips are drawn tight.

Yalda feels the flush in his face. “I didn't, I just, I didn't mean to. You seem…” It's dangerous, probably, to admit to the truth, that he was in the Brotherhood and Danse reminds him a great deal of the officers at Starfield, who held their posture straight, their weapons high. Who never so much as looked at him during daylight hours, even if they sometimes took the night to bed him. Yalda doesn't regret what he's done, but something about Danse makes him uneasy. 

“What did Vishnu...or Preston...tell you about me?” Danse asks.

“Ah,” Yalda’s mind races, “not much? Preston said you're good but...you and Vishnu...bring out the worst in each other.” He shouldn't have said that. Covering his mouth with his hands, he wishes he could take the words back.

Danse sighs heavily, taking a long drink to finish off his bottle. “Let us go eat.”

Yalda doesn't question, falling into step behind Danse. After a few strides, he realizes that probably looks odd, and he hurries to brings himself in line. Danse holds the door open for him, so they can step through into the light. “They didn't really go for noodles,” Danse states plainly.

“Oh,” Yalda covers his mouth again.

Danse shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I was with the Brotherhood...before.”

Yalda’s heart thuds hard in his chest, once. Twice. Is this a trap? This explains so much about Danse’s demeanor, but opens up new questions. Almost everything spills out at once. But he dams it back. The only thing to make it through is, “What do you know about me?”

“That you, and your friends, arrived in a stolen Vertibird.”

There's that panic again, telling Yalda to run. But where? He doesn't know where he is, not really. He can't just shout and scream and cry and expect to be found. So he stays in step next to Danse. He has to trust Preston would never leave him with someone who would hurt him.

“Vishnu told me you were with the Brotherhood too, out West.” Danse shakes his head, “I have so many questions. But first, I should ask you something else.”

Yalda’s mouth is dry, “What?”

“Do you know what a synth is? A synthetic human?”

There were reports, but never a specimen delivered to Starfield. Well, not as far as Yalda knows. He doubts that he would be informed, synths seem so beyond his own capability for understanding. His biology skills are not very good. “Yes.”

“And what were you taught? About synths.”

Yalda isn't sure he understands the question. “Some of the...other Scribes were hoping to procure one. The technology to make them must be quite advanced, ah. But we didn't have many specialists in that sort of thing. I've never seen one.”

Danse starts leading them away from the marketplace. They're not getting noodles either. Instead they cut down a narrow alleyway. They barely fit side by side, what with Danse’s broad shoulders. “I mean, what were you taught about...their humanity?”

There is a right answer to this question. And a wrong one. Yalda has neither response in his repertoire. “We weren't taught anything about their humanity? They’re not human? I guess.” The Brotherhood would say the same about him now.

Frowning, Danse continues, “that's fine. I only wanted to know.” The alley circles around again and they end up back in the market. This time, Danse leads them towards the noodle stand. Yalda isn't quite sure he's hungry, but he won't refuse a meal.

“Do you miss your home?” Danse asks, after two steaming bowls are set in front of them. 

Yalda leans over his dish, letting the steam and spice clear his nostrils. “Yes,” he admits, very much.” He takes his first bite, then a second. The soup is salty and spicy, sitting neatly in his stomach. “Why...did you leave?”

Chewing his noodles slowly, it takes Danse a long time to respond. “Here, the Brotherhood thought synths abominations.”

“And you didn't agree?” Yalda asks.

Danse covers his mouth completely with his hand, obscuring his lips. He keeps his voice low, sliding under the rug of the market’s ambient noise. “I am a synth.”

Yalda finds his noodles very interesting.

\--

Danse, synth or not, is just as kind as Preston. At least as far as Yalda is concerned. He walks by Yalda’s side as he speaks with the Diamond City merchants, asking all sorts of questions, mostly about the small electronics and “junk” they stock. It won't be so very long before the Castle will need more power. And Preston wanted to visit some other settlements after they finish in the City. Yalda would like to be of some use. He purchases a lot of twelve broken watches, just for the gears. 

Vishnu and Preston find them, sitting just off the main drag after Yalda has finished shopping. Yalda drinks from his soda, Danse having another beer. Reaching down, Vishnu offers a hand to Danse, hoisting him up. Their noses knock together, both of them smiling.

“You've been drinking,” Danse murmurs.

Vishnu teases back, “So have you.”

“Not the same.”

Ignoring them both, Preston takes Danse’s place beside Yalda on the concrete ledge. “Everything alright?” he asks. “Danse keep an eye on you?”

Yalda nods, “he's very kind.” He's not sure what Preston knows or doesn't know about Danse.

“I thought you might get along,” Preston looks relieved. “I rented us a room at the Dugout. Unless you'd like your own?”

Yalda stops him, “I like sleeping with you.” It comes out slightly wrong, but he trusts Preston knows what he means. 

They have to return to Publick Occurrences to grab their bags. Piper waves them off, but not without reminding Yalda she’ll get her story, one way or another. Yalda doesn't know quite how to tell her he knows so much less than she thinks he does.


	11. Rotations and Excuses

Preston explains, in the morning, that plans have changed. They’ll be returning to the Castle, soon. All of them. Preston, Piper, Danse, and Vishnu. But Yalda, Yalda can choose where he wants to go.

Truth be told, if he chooses anywhere but at Preston’s side, Preston will be disappointed. But Yalda beams, saying that the Castle is fine. He has some ideas, about climate controlling the barracks, if they will let him try?

Preston bites his tongue, because he wants to tell Yalda everything. But he can't. The Institute is putting more pressure on Vishnu, and this time they can't afford to make mistakes. They made mistakes with the Prydwen, because the Brotherhood forced Vishnu’s hand. Maybe they could have drawn out the confrontation, a week more, maybe two. But once Vishnu betrayed Maxson, once Maxson started leaning on Vishnu about turning over Minutemen farms to Brotherhood supply lines, they had to act.

When the blimp went up in flames, Preston couldn't hear them. Not over the noise of the Vertibird, not over the pounding of the blood in his ears. He kept the pistol to the pilot’s head, trying to block out everything else.

Preston couldn't hear the dying. The death. But he could hear Gillian, screaming in Vishnu’s arms. At the time, he only wanted the screaming to stop. But, despite her anguish, she lived. She shot Vishnu that same morning, squarely in the chest. Preston assumes, one of these days, she’ll get him too. 

At least today he doesn't want to die. Sometimes he wonders if he and Gillian are following different flight patterns. Maybe she’ll never crash back into him. He only hopes, if it does happen, she's still safe.

The five of them eat breakfast together as a group, baked bread and tarberry jam. It’s expensive, but Vishnu shows up to Publick Occurrences with the meal already in hand. Danse comes in behind him with packets of instant coffee and teabags. Piper already has her kettle running.

Piper sits close to Yalda, asking him questions Preston can’t hear. But Yalda looks more comfortable today than he did yesterday, though he tears the bread in his hands into tinier and tinier pieces while he talks. 

Honestly, Preston has questions for both Vishnu and Danse, though not the same ones. He’s certain Vishnu will answer to the best of his ability. Danse? He’s not so sure.

Danse was gone for a little more than two months, though Piper says she saw him shortly after the Prydwen went down. Vishnu claims to have visited him sometime after that. Then weeks of silence. Preston doesn’t know what to make of it, and maybe it isn’t his business. 

Despite his affections for Vishnu, Danse loved the Brotherhood. Not just loyalty, but love. Preston sees it more sharply now, having grown to care for Yalda, who speaks of Starfield with the same affection, even as he insists he could not stay. They’re both orphans, and though Danse and Yalda came to the Brotherhood at different times in their lives, the Order mothered them, in a way no one had before.

They finish their meal, Vishnu picking up the mismatched dishes to wash them in Piper’s sink before they set off. He makes idle chatter while he works, refusing to let anyone help him. “Nat will be alright without you?”

Piper slings her coat over her arm, it’s too hot outside to wear it, and it’s too bulky to fit in her pack. “She always is.”

They all wait while Vishnu dries the dishes, stacks them neatly, before the leave.

\--

Yalda is eager to get started on his new project, leaving Preston the space and time to plan with Vishnu. 

They head to Preston’s office: Vishnu, Piper, Danse, and himself. There aren’t enough chairs for them all, so Piper and Vishnu sit on the edge of the bed, while Preston and Danse take the two chairs.

“Can we smoke in here?” Piper asks cheerfully.

“I thought you were quitting?” Preston questions.

Vishnu laughs, “I thought you had quit.”

Preston passes her the ashtray from off his desk. 

“As far as Nat’s concerned, I have. Only these are stressful times, and my willpower isn’t what it used to be.” She lights her cigarette before tucking her pack back into the deepest reaches of her bag. “So, fill me in on this situation.”

Vishnu props his hands on the mattress, leaning back. “I think we’re all in agreement here that the Institute can’t be left to operate as it has been for years. Even before the Brotherhood showed up, they were seen as a threat to the stability of the Commonwealth.” He sighs, “And I’ve been inside, you all know that.”

Preston nods, urging Vishnu to continue, he’s heard most of this. Danse surely has too. But Piper needs to be filled in.

“The synths they’re...they’re kept like slaves. Denied free will, but I know they have it. I’ve seen it. If they show any sign of rebelling, they’re wiped, reprogrammed.” Vishnu’s eye skitter to Danse. “They’re as human as any of us.”

“So what are you proposing?” Piper taps off her ash, careful to keep it off Preston’s sheets. 

“We have to get the synths out. And most of the scientists are blameless. They really are. They were born into the Institute, they don’t really know what it’s like, up here.” He shakes his head. “But the leadership...can’t be convinced of change.”

“So we eliminate their leaders?” Piper summarizes. 

“Something like that,” Vishnu’s face is pinched. “I think we can do it with a small team. But we have to figure out who is best suited. And it’s not me. It’s never me, but obviously,” he twirls his hand, “I have to go.”

“Who are you thinking?” Preston asks. They hadn’t gotten this far in their discussions. 

“Danse can’t go. He’s in their database and will be flagged on arrival. I’d like for you to come, of course. And I hate to put it this way, but Piper, you’re small enough to fit into the ducts, and part of this plan is going to need that particular skillset.”

Piper scoffs, “This sounds great, just great.”

“And I need an engineer,” Vishnu shakes his head. “I want it to be Struges. But I know I can’t convince him of anything,” He looks at Preston expectantly. 

“I’ll do what I can,” Preston offers, “But I’m not terribly persuasive either.” 

“But he trusts you. Our other option is Tinker Tom, from the Railroad. I...I’m pretty sure I can convince him to come. But I’d rather not put him in danger for our plan. Besides, Desdemona might try to push additional conditions on us if we try to enlist them again.”

“That is a small force,” Danse says, “Our plan should be sound.”

“I know. I just don’t have as many friends as I used to.” Vishnu smiles softly. 

No one speaks their names: Robert, Nick. But they know, or should know, that losing the latter hurts Vishnu the most. Their friendship was doomed before it began. It was doomed two-hundred and ten years ago, when Vishnu took a client he wasn’t given the option of refusing. When federal agents, play-pretending gangsters, told him it was about time he represent Eddie Winter in a very important legal matter. Robert found in Winter’s bunker what Vishnu always knew. What he couldn’t bring himself to tell Nick from the start. Maybe, had he, things would have been different.

All Vishnu can do is move forward, or he dies. They’ll all die. Not today, or tomorrow, but someday, soon. Because they’ve already enacted too much change to be left well enough alone. 

Preston lights his cigarette too. Piper perches the ashtray where they can both reach.

“How much time do we have?” Preston asks.

Vishnu shrugs his shoulders. “A month, maybe two. We’ve got some time. We can do this right. But I need to know on Struges. If not, I’ll have to go smile at Desdemona.”

Piper snickers, “That’ll never work.”

“Then you’ll smile at her,” Vishnu bumps his shoulder into Piper’s. She’s nearly through her cigarette. “Other than that, since we know for sure the three of us are going, we should make sure we have armor. It’s all energy weapons inside. So reinforced leather I suppose? And small weapons. We might be able to move freely for a bit before they catch on.”

“I thought you couldn’t bring guests?” Piper questions. If Vishnu could take someone else to see the wonders of the Institute, Piper would be first in line.

“I’m going to see what I can do. I don’t know how much Sha--their leader knows about what happened at the Prydwen. I assume he knows that Preston and I took it down, but about the pretexts we used? Whether they’re expecting a repeat performance? I’ve still got to figure that out.”

Preston frowns, “But this isn’t going to be a repeat performance, is it?” There were lives they could have spared on the Prydwen. Children, like Gillian, who were still aboard. Scribes who didn’t know how to fight, but could have been of great service to the Commonwealth, if only given the chance. People like Yalda.

“Not if I can help it,” Vishnu promises.

\--

Preston asks Hera to radio Sanctuary. They get Sturges on the line. Everything is well and good. Marcy and Gillian are back for a spell. Not sure when they’ll have to go out again. But spirits are good across the stretch of the Minutemen’s reach, even if Preston can’t make it to all the settlements. Not having the Brotherhood sniffing around the settlements has put a lot of minds at ease. Even if their methods were violent.

“Do you think you might be able to make the trip out to the Castle?” Preston asks. Now that Marcy is back, they might be able to spare Sturges. “If it will be a problem, be honest.”

Sturges’ smile is heavy in his voice. “Suppose I could come through. Anything I need to bring?”

“If anything, you should be prepared to haul back. We’ve done a couple of scavenging runs of the airport. Though, I should warn you, Yalda’s already had first pickings.”

On the other end of the connection, Sturges laughs. “That boy treating you right, then?”

“Something like that,” Preston feels warm in his stomach. “He’s hardly a boy, though.”

“Sure, sure,” Struges soothes, undoubtedly thinking he knows more than he really does. 

\--

Yalda’s hands are dirty, speckled with soot and oil. He wipes them hastily along the side of his skirt, but there’s little he can do at the moment about the crud underneath his nails. Preston doesn’t mind, holding his hand anyway, once he’s finished fussing. 

They head up the stairs together to walk the perimeter of the battlements. Yalda talks in exquisite detail about his day. Before any sort of climate control will work, he will have to make sure the barracks can be properly sealed, otherwise, all his mechanical work won’t make a bit of difference. 

“But I stopped sealing around noon. I needed to give the filler time to dry down,” he crinkles his nose, “I didn’t want it to still smell when people had to go to sleep. So then I switched over to the generator.”

Preston doesn’t mind the way Yalda fills up the silence. He can’t exactly speak much on what he did today. Vishnu sketched out what he could remember of the layout of the Institute, where he’s seen vents, electrical fittings, and sealed doors no one uses. He’s trying to recall the comings and goings of people too. What he can’t remember, he’ll try to figure out when he returns. Tomorrow he’s heading back to the Institute. Vishnu won’t want to be at the Castle when Sturges arrives. So it’s likely he’ll be gone for several days.

“Even if I can’t get the cooling system to work,” he gestures with his free hand, “I’m sure we can find a use for the extra power.”

Squeezing Yalda’s hand in his own, Preston responds, “Of course we can.”

The exchange between them is so natural, even though Preston’s pulse aches to tell Yalda more. He wonders if this is his sign? That for whatever wrongs he’s committed, he’s forgiven? Because Yalda smiles so softly, and tells Preston again how happy he is to be useful. Preston feels the same.

\--

The Lone Wanderer and Butch return, though this time without their Vertibird. They stumble through the gates, half-drunk, Butch’s arm slung over Tate’s shoulders and Tate’s hand stuck into Butch’s back pocket. They look happy, ecstatic. 

Preston greets them, sending Thomas to go fetch Yalda from the barracks.

“Did you find your friend?” Preston is hesitant with his question, in case the news is bad.

“Boy did we ever!” Tate shouts, his breath heavy with beer. He laughs, as if finding her has all along been a joke. “She's great, she's wonderful.” He sounds sincere. 

Butch is more reserved, though he's smirking too. “Maybe being rid of us was the right thing.”

Preston doesn't pry further, hoping Yalda will arrive soon, so he might excuse himself. “As long as she's safe…”

“Safe!” Tate laughs. He's more intoxicated than Preston originally thought. “It was all to keep her safe. I'm happy, so happy.”

Yalda arrives just in time, stepping up so Tate can fall into him with a hug. Though Tate is a few inches shorter than Yalda, his bulk keeps him from looking small. “You're safe too. Good.”

“Yes, of course.” Yalda holds onto Tate’s biceps, squeezing down.

“Didja listen to us?” Butch’s words are slightly slurred, but less so than his husband’s.

Embarrassment clear on Yalda’s face, he still dutifully answers, “Yes, ah, maybe we can talk?” Looking back to Preston expectantly, Yalda makes it clear enough that Preston is free to leave. Maybe even that this conversation isn't for him to hear.

Excusing himself, Preston turns to leave. He's not trying to listen in, but he catches as Tate and Butch slip into the garbled practice of speaking in half code and familiarity. It's a wonder Yalda can make it out, but maybe he only pretends to understand.


	12. Say it Aloud, Foolish Boy

Tonight, it can be tonight. Tate and Butch say they're good. By evening they’ll be sober. It doesn't have to be tonight, if Yalda doesn't want. But he does want, he aches. 

He tries to take his mind off of tonight. Push his desires to the back of his mind. Making his hands busy with work on the forced air cooling unit. He's managed to find a large enough tube from the last batch of salvage brought back from the airport. He uses putty to tighten the seal. Carefully, he works the air out of the polymer, so it won't crack as it starts to dry. He's had to improvise a lot, but he's making progress.

For weeks he and Preston have been sleeping together, ah, sharing a bed. Preston wraps his arms around Yalda’s waist, when it's not too hot to be suffocating. When they wake, it's often with Preston’s erection pressing into Yalda’s back. He doesn't mind, not at all, often finding himself just as hard. But he has to make sure his shirt is pulled down past the waistband of his boxers. He's started tucking the hem is into the elastic, just to make sure, though sometimes it comes loose in the night.

Preston lets Yalda touch him, wherever he would like. But it seems unfair to do too much, when Yalda can't yet allow Preston do the same. So mostly Yalda keeps his hands pressed flat to Preston’s chest, kissing until they're both breathless, and nearly miss breakfast all together.

But now, Tate and Butch are back. They came back to make sure Yalda was safe, now that they know Amata is safe too. And their other friend from childhood, Freddie, is with her. They’ll be coming to the Castle, very soon. Maybe not to stay, but as a sort of reunion. Yalda is looking forward to meeting her. Tate says Amata and Freddie have two children. He says that he's sure they're beautiful and strong and clever.

Butch grabs Yalda for dinner and it's true that he looks more sober now. His hair is freshly trimmed, though he's left it unstyled. The day is nearly done, after all.

“So did you decide?” Butch puts his cigarette to his lips, kicking around the gravel on the ground. He's trying not to pressure Yalda one way or another.

“Yes,” Yalda nods firmly. “Tonight, I want to.”

“Okay. You two still go on walks?” Butch is trying to plan how this will work.

“Yes, normally, ah, just a short one though. And then we go back to his office.”

Butch nods. “We’ll keep an eye out, then. Just let us know, if he's cool. We don't have to like, ya know, listen to every detail.”

Yalda's ears flush, “yes, that would be better.”

“But we gotta be close enough in case he's not cool.”

They're not too late to dinner. To Yalda’s surprise, Tate is sitting with Danse, instead of with Preston. Butch slaps Yalda on the back before going to sit with Tate. Right, okay. It can't possibly be that they're expecting him to tell Preston about his condition over dinner. But they are trying to give them some space. 

Preston smiles brightly when Yalda sits down with his plate. He asks how work is going on the cooling unit?

“I have all the parts I need, now. And the barracks are sealed. But I still need to ventilate it somehow. And cutting through stone will be a problem. So I'm thinking about how to mount it in a window, maybe.”

“Well,” Preston offers, “Struges should be here soon. Ah, not that I think you need help. But maybe to bounce ideas around?”

Yalda brightens. “Oh!” He doesn't mean to flail so wildly. “That's wonderful! I've missed him. And yes, I'm sure he'll have some ideas. He's more experienced than I am.”

“You've had more training,” Preston points out.

Yalda waves him off, “Not the same. He's much more practically minded. I told you, before I came here, I did a lot of design, but not a lot of construction. Sometimes, I made my own models, but often times, I just drew.”

“Your drawings are lovely though.”

Yalda flushes.

\--

Yalda and Preston come back down the stairs, hand in hand. Yalda doesn't see Butch or Tate, but they swore to be discrete. They’ll wait just outside Preston’s door, until Yalda gives them the all clear. 

Swallowing heavily, Yalda hopes he isn't behaving oddly. He reaches over with his free hand to tug at the cords he wears around his wrist, never breaking contact with Preston’s palm.

The June evening is hot, much more so than it would be at Starfield, this time of year. Yalda likes the weather, though it makes the inside of his legs sticky with sweat, and his skin is much darker now than it ever was at home. He spends more time outside, working in the sun.

Preston drops his hand to get the keys to his office, fitting the correct one into the lock and pulling at the latch. As always, he lets Yalda into the room first.

Preston’s office is a little cooler than outside. Even though the sun went down hours ago, the brightness bakes the bricks during the day. But the thick walls keep the heat from becoming too much inside. That's why such a little machine should be able to cool the barracks. Yalda tries not to be too impressed with his own cleverness. But if the cooling system works, he’ll try to figure out heat for the winter too.

His stomach drops. Will he be here in the winter? He doesn't know. Butch and Tate are still trying to find someone who can help him, somewhere he could stay. Even if Preston doesn't mind the patch of rot along his back, it will spread. It will grow and grow, until it covers Yalda’s arms, his stomach, his face. And even if Preston says he’ll still feel the same, the rest of the Commonwealth won't.

Not today, or tomorrow, or even by the winter, but someday, Yalda will be a ghoul.

G. H. O. U. L.

Really, he already is. No matter how many times he repeats it to himself, the blow is just as harsh. He tries not to say it aloud. But he’ll have to, now.

The door clicks closed behind them. Preston takes off his hat, setting it on his desk, where it always goes. He keeps his eyes averted. Yalda usually changes quickly.

“Preston,” his voice comes out raspy. It scares Yalda for a second, but the change in tone is only because his mouth is dry. “Preston, please, ah, look at me, I need to tell you something.”

Preston looks up, his dark eyes warm, but a little unsure. “Something bad?”

Yalda bites his bottom lip, “Watch me.” He can't say it, even now. But Yalda reaches back to grab the zipper of his dress, tugging it down to just below his tailbone. Preston keeps his eyes forward, on Yalda’s face.

Before he shucks his clothes, Yalda brushes his fingers along his lower back. It's there. Preston is going to see it. And if the reaction is bad? He only needs to yell. Tate and Butch are just outside. They will stop anything bad from happening.

“I'm going to take off my dress now…”

“Yalda,” Preston’s voice hitches. Is he unsure? “Okay.”

Pushing down the short sleeves, Yalda drags his arms free before pushing down his dress to pool on the floor around his boots. He almost laughs. He forgot to take off his boots.

Preston stares at him, his mouth slightly open, not daring to move. He's quietly hungry. They both are. They've delayed this for so long, and Yalda has given no reason other than, “Not yet.”

Yalda isn't quite naked, still with his boxers on. He's too nervous to be hard. His body he knows well enough. Knows well enough too that men value different things about it. He's built small, despite his height, and prone to thinness anyway. Though his arms a bulkier now than they've ever been, since he's started building as much as drawing. But when he breathes in, his ribs show. And his hipbones always show, jutting out above the elastic of his boxers. But some men like that. So maybe Preston does too.

“Not yet,” Yalda almost whispers, when Preston starts to move. “I have to show you something first.” Yalda looks away, losing what little confidence he’s had.

He can leave tonight, if this all goes wrong. He has friends now, who will protect him.

He steps out of the circle of his dress, leaving it on the concrete floor. Taking a breath, he turns his back to Preston. Leaves himself vulnerable. Maybe he won't have time to call for help. But he still can't say it. He's a coward.

“Yalda?” Preston’s voice only just reaches his ears. “Who did this to you?”

He feels warm all over. But, oh, oh, Yalda assumed Preston would recognize the scaring, the transformation along his skin. Butch had recognized it right away, from touch alone. It hadn't occurred to him Preston wouldn't know. He's met ghouls before, Yalda is certain of that.

Yalda looks over his shoulder first, seeing nothing but concern in Preston’s eyes. He feels horribly vulnerable. Alone. Maybe screaming and accusations would have been better.

“Yalda, can I come closer?” Preston sounds as if he's trying to comfort a frightened animal. Maybe he isn't so wrong on that account.

Facing forward again, Yalda nods, letting Preston close enough that they can reach for each other. He's not scared anymore. He shouldn't have been scared. Preston isn't the type to react violently. Sometimes, yes, he is a man who commits violence, but only for the good of others. The anxious knot still won't untangle in Yalda’s stomach. But for once, he's bare while Preston is still clothed, so at least the threads start to come apart.

Preston wraps one arm around Yalda’s back, sliding a hand between Yalda’s shoulder blades, over the patch of scar tissue there. After Yalda had been shot by Scribe Eli as they escaped Starfield, Butch only had the one stim, not enough to prevent the scars from taking hold where he was left laser-burned. And with the way Preston’s digits slide over the imperfections, Yalda realizes he has more than one set of damages to explain. Perhaps if he starts with the burn, he’ll gain the confidence to talk about the rot.

“That’s from...when we left Starfield. Ah,” he doesn't want to talk too much. But the solid warmth of Preston’s body, the way he smells of dirt and salt, means he doesn't want to even move. Doesn't want a single thing to change. “They didn't care about me, there, not really. But Butch and Caroline, they were...really valuable. So when we tried to leave...I got really scared. And I ran. And another Scribe shot me in the back.”

“It was brave of you, to leave,” Preston soothes, though he still doesn't know, not really, the kind of man Yalda is. He's a coward, but that's not so bad. He's still here. Still alive.

“I had to leave Starfield, because,” he mumbles into Preston’s shoulder. Grabbing Preston’s other hand, the one still gripping Yalda’s hip, he slides Preston’s palm around to the center of his back. He knows the rot is harder than the scar, pocketed rather than smooth. Yalda screws his eyes shut. Preston’s hand is completely still. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes,” Preston kisses the side of his head again. “You could have told me.”

“Only Butch and Tate know. Not even Caroline knows. I don't know how she would react. I didn't know for sure how you would...in the Brotherhood…”

“I know about that too, Yalda. What they think about those they believe to be inhuman.” 

Yalda opens his eyes, looking for Preston’s. “Even after I knew what was happening, I didn't want to leave. I...would have died there. I knew they were going to kill me, and that was okay. But Butch and Tate convinced me to run.”

Preston swallows heavily, “And do you think you made the right decision?”

Yalda nods firmly, “Yeah. I wish no one had gotten hurt. That they would have just let us walk out. But...it was never going to be that way…”

Pulling back slightly, Preston frowns, only just at the corners of his mouth. Like he's realized something quite important. “Can I kiss you?”

And Yalda remembers. “Wait, ah, just one moment,” he pulls away, moving more sharply than he intended. Preston’s frown deepens. 

He still has his boxers on, so there's no reason to cover up when he opens Preston’s door.

“Yalda?”

Ignoring Preston for the moment, Yalda swings open the door. Tate and Butch are on the other side, just like they promised.

“He knows,” Yalda hopes he doesn't have to explain more.

Tate brushes his hair away from his forehead. “And we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Yalda responds.

Butch looks over Yalda’s shoulder, undoubtedly at Preston, before he shouts, “You’d better take good care of him! If he's still walking straight tomorrow, I'll kick yer ass.”

Tate bursts out laughing, but Yalda is horrified, hurrying to close the door in their faces.

Preston still looks to be in quiet shock. “They were out there the whole time?”

“Yes, ah, they just wanted to make sure I was going to be alright.”

“You've been waiting for them to come back?” Preston questions. “To tell me this.”

Yalda nods.

Preston steps towards him, but this time instead of hugging, he tugs Yalda towards the bed. He's still fully dressed, but he fumbles with Yalda’s body until they fall against the mattress, their lips tracing familiar paths. The intimacy of their kissing is well-worn. But now, now they can do more than that.

Yalda wraps his legs around Preston’s hips, straddling him as Preston’s back hits the mattress. Yalda is so giddy with his lust that he laughs when their lips break apart. Preston takes Yalda’s face between his hands, “You’re beautiful. But I think you know that.”

Yalda beams, “So are you.” He dips down to brush their noses together. “And you should...we should…”

“What do you want?” Preston skims his hands down Yalda’s bare sides and then back up, his fingers following the indent of Yalda’s bones, soft, reverent. 

Yalda admits, “Everything.”

Below him, Preston smiles, “Doesn't have to be everything tonight, though.”

“Ah, okay, okay I have an idea.” Yalda isn't certain of himself. He's not ashamed of sex, he's not! But saying some things aloud is...difficult. It's not polite. But he cares about Preston deeply. He wants this to be good. “I know you...touch yourself before you come to bed. I do it too…”

Preston nods. 

“What were you thinking about? Was it me?”

Sucking air between his teeth, Preston admits that it was, “Of course.”

“Tell me?” Yalda asks.

“What if I show you?” Preston offers.

“That works too,” he's not going to force Preston to speak, not when he can barely manage it himself.

“Let me up?”

Reluctantly, Yalda rolls off of Preston and onto the bed, keeping his legs slightly splayed. He takes the opportunity to finally remove his boots.

Preston stands, stripping off his shirt and belt, but letting his jeans hang on his hips. Crawling back into bed, he settles between Yalda’s legs, running his hands over his thighs, up to his bent knees, over Yalda’s shins, then back again. When he makes it to Yalda’s boxers, Preston tugs at the elastic, pulling them off until Yalda can kick them away.

Yalda is mostly hard by now, from the kissing and caressing. He hasn't touched himself in a couple of days, though he wants very desperately to be touched now.

Preston wraps his hand around Yalda’s shaft. His hand is calloused, but not too much. He works very hard, but at different tasks, the pressure points always shifting. His grip is firm as he strokes Yalda, his other hand dancing against his thigh. Eyes so warm, so brown, Yalda forgets to breathe.

He's gentle with Yalda. Not that Yalda expected different from Preston...only it's different from the other men, the ones who were easy to convince to come to bed with him at Starfield. The ones who wanted to have fun. And Yalda had fun too. But this...this is better than fun.

Leaning forward, Preston kisses Yalda’s lips one more time before dipping his head lower, taking the tip of Yalda’s cock into his mouth. He keeps the rest of the shaft wrapped in his hand while he sucks and bobs. The warm wetness of his tongue swipes lower as Preston pulls his hand away, taking more of Yalda down his throat.

Oh, oh. It's been so long since someone else has touched him. And, and, no one at Starfield did this for him. He’d done it, for others, but, oh.

Coaxing with lips and tongue, Preston brings Yalda to the edge quickly, though maybe that isn't his intent. But Yalda feels the pressure in his abdomen, the twitching between his muscles.

“Preston,” his voice is soft as it escapes, a warning, but only in half-measure. If Preston minds, he doesn't show it, swallowing down Yalda’s cum as he shivers against the sheets. He feels warm and cold all at once, waiting for the tremors to fade. 

Preston slides back up Yalda’s body, keeping their chests close. Yalda reaches for his shoulders, running the pads of his fingers against Preston’s skin, “You should probably...ah,” he can feel Preston hard against his thigh. 

“You can use your hand,” Preston suggests, “I'd like that.”

“You don't want to?” Yalda wants. But he doesn't want to say.

“Next time,” Preston brushes away Yalda’s hair. “For now could you just?”

“Yeah.”

Yalda helps Preston with the fly of his jeans. They shift around until he pulls his pants and boxers off. Yalda has seen Preston naked before. But now he gets to touch.

They lay side by side in Preston’s narrow bed. Yalda works his hand in a steady rhythm, sucking at the hollow of Preston’s throat. They're both careful as Preston comes, a whine at the back of his throat, trying to keep it off the sheets.

Yalda rolls out of bed just far enough to find a towel to wipe his hand, Preston’s stomach too. They fall together afterward, tucked in against each other. It's not so different than every other night, though this time they’re skin on skin. Yalda doesn't have to hide his back.

“We should talk, in the morning,” Preston says, before drifting off to sleep.


	13. Everything Has to Come Together before it Can Fall Apart

It's normal now, familiar, to wake up next to Yalda. His smaller body curled against Preston’s chest, shaggy hair sticking up in all directions. But the longer Yalda’s hair grows, the better it seems to behave.

What is strange, beautifully so, is when Preston runs his hands along Yalda’s spine, it's bare, soft, despite the scarring. He knew something was there, under Yalda’s layers. Patchy laser burns like those over Yalda’s back are not so unusual. Preventable, with proper care, but that's not a luxury most Wasters can afford. When Vishnu was shot...when Gillian shot him in the chest, Preston and Deacon pumped him full of enough stims to slow the laser’s damage before it really even took hold.

Preston takes his fingers lower, away from the soft, strange plushness of the keloided laser burn and down to the harder patch at the small of Yalda’s back. It’s not so large, really, but it’s unmistakable. Preston has only really felt ghoulification before in handshakes, the occasional brush of bare arms. Yalda’s skin there is thicker, harder than a callous, but there’s flexibility still, as he shifts slightly in his sleep. Looking down at his face, Preston makes sure Yalda’s eyes are still closed. He had worried, if he touched the scars, it might cause Yalda to wake, to be self-conscious, he shouldn’t be. He’s still beautiful. 

Yes. Preston would rather Yalda not have to suffer through the changes to come. He cannot pretend that turning into a ghoul is an ideal set of circumstances. There will be humans who hate him, merely for who they think he is. There will be settlements and towns that turn him away. But there are those who will just as soon welcome him. This might mean Yalda lives for a very, very long time. Or he could lose his mind quite soon. Preston doesn’t want to think of that.

He wishes this were easier. But he has no control over the spreading changes on Yalda’s skin. 

There are some things he can control, though, as he kisses Yalda awake, tilting his head down to press his lips against Yalda’s. He smiles as they part for him, as Yalda kisses back, lazily, only half aware. 

“Mmm,” Yalda's eyes open, dark lashes tapping against his brow bone as his eyes come into focus. “Preston,” he smiles.

“Hey,” Preston's voice is slightly gravelly from disuse. He's starting to think he might have summer allergies. 

Yalda brings his hand up to Preston’s chest, tracing over where his muscles are only loosely defined. “How are you feeling?” Yalda asks, dipping his hand lower, to the patch of softness on Preston’s stomach. 

“Couldn't be better.” Preston gasps slightly as Yalda pushes down the elastic of his boxers, stroking at his cock. The morning makes him half-hard in any case, but Yalda’s affections drag him along the road with quick steps.

“Are you sure about that?” Yalda’s smile is almost elfin, quietly confident, as if he knows his own charms. Even though he errors on the side of politeness, blushing and the occasional stammer, he's not ashamed. “Ah, you could still, you know.”

“Do you want to?” Preston didn't think they'd move this fast? Are they even moving quickly? Before last night, their progress was achingly slow, though Preston never minded.

“I do,” Yalda catches Preston’s eyes. “I like it a lot...ah, being intimate, I mean. Even if I didn't particularly care for the other person...that sounds bad! I care for you a lot. But...just to say...I like...yes,” Yalda laughs to diffuse his jumbled speech. 

“How would you like to do it, then?” Preston starts to get the idea Yalda is more experienced than he is, at least in this case.

Yalda tucks his hair behind his ear. “Is there a position you prefer?”

Realizing he should just trust Yalda, tell him the truth, Preston sighs. “I should tell you something.” After everything Yalda has shared of himself, Preston’s admission should be easy. “I haven't...had anal sex before.” Anyone else, and they might laugh at him. Yalda, of course, does not.

“Oh!” Yalda exclaims, pulling his hand in front of his mouth. “I'm sorry, I had just assumed, when you said, you'd…before.”

“I've been with men and women,” Preston explains, “but with men, it was only ever mouths and hands.” His whole face feels too hot. Maybe they should have spoken about this earlier, but it never seemed the time. 

“If you don't want to?” 

“I do,” Preston admits, the idea of it feels, nice. And he has thought of it before. He's fairly certain he has a grasp of the basic mechanics. And he's fingered himself when masturbating. His chief concern is not living up to Yalda’s expectations.

“Okay, okay,” Yalda pulls away a little. Makes Preston’s heart jump, that despite his words of assurance, Yalda might already be changing his mind. “Ah, I've only ever, you know...been taken. So,” Yalda sits up. Climbing out of bed, he goes for his pack on the floor, rifling through until he pulls out a small bottle of lubricant. “You can help me get ready?”

Preston’s resolve cracks, “I'd like that.”

Yalda smiles, clambering back into bed. He stays sitting up at first, asking for Preston’s hand. “It's been a little while for me. So start with just one finger. I'll tell you when to add more, okay?” Though his voice is chipper, there is a hint of something else. Maybe residual nervousness. 

“How long?” Preston winches. Maybe it's improper to ask. But it takes his mind off the slickness Yalda spreads along his fingers.

“Before, you know, so ah, about a year, little more.”

Mutely, Preston nods.

“Okay, I'll...roll onto my side, that should work.” Yalda flops back down on the bed, facing away from Preston. They haven't turned on the overhead lights, but there is enough sun coming in under the shades now that Preston has a clear view of Yalda’s scars. The vulnerability of the position rakes along Preston’s nerves, how trusting Yalda can be, though he held onto his secret for a long time.

Yalda parts his thighs just slightly before looking over his shoulder, back at Preston, “Okay, try the first finger?”

Nodding, Preston, shifts closer to Yalda’s back, sliding his slickened hand between Yalda’s legs, brushing against his hole. He circles the ring, once, twice, before dipping inside. Yalda is already relaxed, content, and Preston’s finger slides in with only a twinge of resistance. Starting to draw his finger back out, push forward again, Preston hears Yalda’s voice hitch, a breath that sounds an awful lot like, “Good.”

He waits until Yalda tells him to add a second, then a third. Gripping his free hand against Yalda’s hip, Preston wonders again if this is a good idea. Objectively, if he steps back, he knows he's not going to break Yalda. Yalda clearly knows his own limits, clenching down on Preston’s fingers, saying that he's ready. Really, he's been ready for so long.

Pulling his fingers out of Yalda, Preston waits for his next instruction. He can't help but touch his hardened cock. Even the sound of Yalda breathing has put him on edge, the needy way he says he's ready.

Yalda rolls over on the mattress, pushing on Preston’s shoulder so he falls onto his back. “If it's okay I'll, ah, ride you? Is that alright?” Out of habit, Yalda pushes his hair behind both his ears again when he sits up.

“Whatever you'd like,” Preston realizes he's still touching himself. He pulls his hand away.

Yalda laughs, bright and only a bit nervous. “Supposed to be, you know,” he twirls his hand, the nest of bracelets and cords on his wrist is the only place he's still covered, “teamwork.”

With more confidence this time, Preston responds, “Ride me.”

Beaming, Yalda moves to straddle Preston’s hips, replacing Preston’s hand on his cock with his own. He only strokes it once before reaching for the bottle of lube, covering his fingers, then Preston’s cock with a few more teasing movements.

He positions himself over Preston’s cock, slowly sinking down. When he stops to breathe, to adjust, Preston nearly loses himself, right there and then. Yalda is so warm, tight, and inviting. When he breathes in, his ribs show, just for a moment, before he finishes his descent. Yalda blinks his eyes back open, hands pressed flat to Preston’s chest. “You feel amazing,” he gasps, starting to raise his hips.

Preston wraps his hands above Yalda’s hips, just at the juncture of bone and softer stomach. Maybe he should run his hands down Yalda’s sides, or touch his nipples, or pull him down to kiss. Something, something. But the overwhelming sensation of closeness is already too much.

“Oh, Preston, touch me, please.” Yalda leans forward, letting him lift and lower his hips at a better angle. Preston nearly slips out, but Yalda catches them both, keeping him sheathed inside. Yalda’s long hair falls out from behind his ears, a soft curtain over his face.

Reaching between their bodies, Preston strokes Yalda’s cock, trying to direct his attention away from the tightening pressure of Yalda’s body. He wants to make sure Yalda is satisfied, that he does well. Though, there's always room for improvement, right? Preston can't imagine right now anything being better than this. Better than Yalda puffing his name in hurried gasps as he spills across Preston’s chest, his arms starting to shake.

Though crashing through his own afterglow, Yalda resumes his rocking, impaling himself on Preston’s cock, still mouthing, “Good, so good,” against the flesh of Preston’s neck.

Preston is quiet as he comes, emptying into Yalda in thick spurts, just at the edges of painful, as tightly wound as he's allowed himself to become. Flopping forward, Yalda lets Preston slip out, pressing kisses to Preston’s sternum before rolling over onto his side. He keeps one hand on Preston’s chest, his head in the crook of Preston’s arm and shoulder. Humming happily, Yalda’s eyes drift closed.

“You're so beautiful,” Yalda murmurs. “I'm so lucky.”

Preston kisses into Yalda’s hair, telling him quite plainly that he feels the same.

\--

After breakfast, he and Yalda part ways. Preston notices when Butch and Tate flank Yalda, walking him back to the barracks where he’s putting the finishing touches on the cooling system. 

Preston swings by the radio tower, picking up transcribed reports from Hera before returning to his office.

Combing over the reports, Preston doesn’t notice the passing of time. That is, until there’s a sharp knock on the door. On the other side is Sturges, who he has been expecting, and Gillian, who he was not.

“You made it,” he smiles at Sturges. Looking down at Gillian, he keeps his mouth upturned. 

“Easy trip. Roads are clear, thanks to you,” Sturges takes his cap off, hanging it on the hook by the door. At his side, Gillian huffs. Why did she even come? “Hope it’s not a problem, Gill wanted to come along.”

“No, of course not,” Preston shakes his head, “You must be tried from the trip, though. Why don’t you catch me once you’re ready to talk?”

“I’m ready now,” Sturges assures, “Gill, why don’t you see if there’s anything you can help with?”

Preston offers, “Yalda is in the barracks, I’m sure he’d like to see you again.” He remembers Yalda speaking of his one encounter with Gillian rather fondly. Though he has no way of knowing if the sentiment is mutual.

Gillian shrugs her shoulders before heading out. She slams her feet in the dirt as she goes, not bothering to shut the door behind her. Sturges closes the door, finally taking her out of Preston’s sight.

“Relax, you know the girl ain’t going to do you like she did Weiss.”

Preston exhales loudly, “That’s not it.”

“I know it’s not,” Sturges smiles softly. “So what is this about?” Leaning against the wall, Sturges crosses his arms over his chest.

“You’re not going to like it. At least, I don’t think you will.”

“Brought me all the way out here just for bad news, eh?” Still, Sturges’ spirits are high.

He might as well just get on with it. “We need you, we need you to come with us when we breach the Institute.”

Sturges huffs, “Why didn’t he ask me himself?”

“Would you have listened?” They don’t need to say Vishnu’s name.

“He’s supposed to be the one with the silver tongue, right? Who can convince anyone to do anything, even if it goes against what they think is right?”

Preston narrows his eyes, “You already think it’s right, though? That we have to stop the Institute. There are people down there, good people, who we can save.”

“Like he saved the people on the Prydwen?”

Halting, Preston admits, “We did what we could. Now, we have more time to do this right. Innocent people don’t have to die. That’s why we need you.”

“What for?” Sturges doesn’t seem any warmer to the idea. But at least he hasn’t left the room.

Sighing, Preston explains, “Vishnu can get you to the generator room. From there, he thinks you can disable the locks on all the doors so they stay open. Then it’s a matter of redirecting the power to the teleporters so we can get everyone out.”

“But not really everyone…” Sturges knows well enough there is likely to be a catch.

“The leadership, Vishnu thinks they should be eliminated.”

Snickering, Sturges says, “Of course he does.”

“Just, think about it. We can do a lot of good.”

“I’m sure you can.”

\--

Gillian sticks to Sturges’ side for the rest of the day. As Preston helps with the crops, he spots the two sitting with Hera over at the radio tower. He can hear Sturges’ booming laugh at something Hera says. Gillian stays tight lipped. When the moment has passed, Preston turns back to the tato plant under his care. Vicky wants him to trim back the dead leaves, but leave them on the ground to mulch. They're only really worried about the overgrowth blocking out the light.

Yalda comes to visit him, hands shoved into the pockets of his dress. It's only long enough to reach Yalda mid-thigh. Then again, the weather has gone from warm to hot. Preston is still in long trousers, but he's starting to think Yalda has the right idea.

“I finished in the barracks,” he smiles. “Just in time for the summer heat, I think.”

Preston wipes the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve. “I'm sure everyone will appreciate it.” Truth be told, he's somewhat in awe of Yalda’s skill. Of course, Sturges is skilled as well, but he's more of a generalist. Sturges can build houses, tinker with generators, hell, he was Tinker Tom’s equal in building the teleporter from Virgil’s plans. But Yalda is a specialist, someone who works with great precision.

“I hope so,” Yalda claps his hands together. “I was thinking, maybe I can put together the supplies to do the same at Sanctuary? That is, if we’ll be going back?”

Preston wipes his hands against his slacks, trying futilely to brush away some of the dirt, “it might be awhile yet until I can go. But Sturges might be traveling back?”

“Oh,” Yalda frowns, “well, is there any harm in planning?”

“No, not that I know of?” Preston’s not sure he understands the weight of what Yalda is really asking.


	14. Still Underprepared for What was a Long Time Coming

Amata Almodovar comes to the Castle.

Butch and Tate haven't seen her in ten years, but they've heard her voice on a holotape, copied and shipped across the continent. Butch called it a manipulation, a trap. The Brotherhood wanted him to stay at Starfield, his programming skill to valuable to lose. They thought that knowing they had Amata could make him stay.

But in the end, both Butch and Amata slipped through the Brotherhood’s fingers. They never even knew they had Tate, though a decade ago, the Brotherhood would have leveled the Wasteland just to keep the Lone Wanderer safe in their nest.

Amata had radioed them from the South, a place once called Philadelphia. It was better for her to make the trip back to the Commonwealth, than for them to head towards her. And so, Butch and Tate wait impatiently for her arrival. They stalk around the Castle, threatening to burst with anxiety and dread. Something could still go wrong.

When she finally walks through the gates, her curly hair pulled back off her neck, combat armor full of dents and debris, Yalda isn't sure what to expect. Tate bursts into tears and curses, wrapping his arms around her waist, hands snaking up to her shoulders. He holds her close, saying he's sorry, he's so sorry. For everything. He was so stupid. He kisses into her hair. She laughs against his chest, wrapping her arms around him too.

“You were stupid, Tate.”

Butch stands numbly, his lips slightly parted. He says, “Hello, Freddie,” to the man who arrives with Amata. 

Freddie’s hand is wrapped around that of a boy of six, with brown eyes and dark hair. The boy shouts, “You’re Butch!”

Butch croaks back, “Yeah, I am,” before Freddie wraps Butch in a hug. 

The little boy wants to hug him too, and Butch crouches down to meet him. “I'm Michael!” the child can't control his volume. “Did mama tell you about me?”

Butch nods, a faint, “Yeah.” 

Standing up again, Butch’s eyes track from Michael to the fourth member of the party. A girl of ten. Despite the heat, she has an oversized leather jacket thrown over her shoulders, beat up boots on her feet. Her thick black hair is tied up in a high ponytail. She says nothing, but she can't look away from Butch.

“You're Clara…” Butch’s voice cracks.

The girl says nothing.

Freddie squeezes Butch’s arm in a friendly sort of way, but the look on his face is drawn, a warning.

“Your mom told me about you too,” Butch says, without much enthusiasm.

Tate breaks away from Amata, grabbing Butch’s arm to pull him towards her. He takes Butch’s place, shaking Freddie’s hand firmly before Freddie tugs him into a hug.

Tate laughs, “You never hugged me in the vault, loser.”

Freddie is just as bright in response, “Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, man. Besides, you fucking everything up worked out alright for me, didn't it?”

Tate’s face drops, “But your dad…”

“You heard about that?” Freddie asks. He's taller than Tate, taller than Butch too. Keeping his hands on Tate’s shoulders, he's reluctant to let go.

“Yeah, Butch and I, you know, were still around the Capital then,” Tate swallows thickly.

Freddie responds, “He knew the risks. I think it was brave of him to go. I was sad when I found out he had died. But,” he hesitates, “we had already lost so many at that point. I guess I was sort of numb, at the time.”

Tate nods, but doesn't push the issue further.

Butch and Amata hug too. Their embrace is unremarkable. But when they pull apart, Amata holds Butch’s face between her hands, “You're safe, you both are.”

“You too,” Butch replies.

Feeling like an interloper, knowing he's an interloper, Yalda thinks he should step away. He doesn't belong to this circle. But he watches the way their gestures mingle, the particular lilt of their accents. Tate and Butch, he's still not quite used to how they talk. But seeing their tight tangle of communication expand out to four people, instead of just two, renders Yalda awestruck. It's breathtakingly intimate.

“Clara,” Amata’s voice is strong, though her eyes are as streaked as Tate’s. “You should come say hello.” The little boy is still buzzing, asking questions a mile a minute. No one seems intent on answering.

Clara takes two steps forward, her hands curled in the leather of her jacket. For a moment, Yalda wonders if she is mute, or simply shyer than her overly exuberant sibling.

But then it is all too obvious why she's so hesitant to move, to speak. What has rendered her such a tightly wound ball of frustration. It was not so very clear at a distance. 

In the morning light, her eyes are so brilliantly blue. 

Yet the evidence does not end there. It’s in the slope of her nose, the apples of her cheeks. Written, all over her face, it’s undeniable. Butch is her father. 

\--

Yalda thinks about designing a compact heating unit that can be swapped for the cooling unit when the temperature changes. But that’s still months away. Then he thinks about ways to keep Preston’s office cool, whether he could build something even more efficient than the system in the barracks.

Preston is out. Yalda isn’t sure where he is. But Butch and Tate, Amata and Freddie, and the children, they need space. They need time without a stranger there. So Yalda ducks away into Preston’s office, laying himself out on the bed. His skirt falls down his legs as he bends his knees, using them to prop up his sketchpad. 

He intends to work on a heating furnace design, but soon enough, his hand strays. He starts with sketches of the empty office, the line of Preston’s desk as it buttresses into the stone wall, the particular curve of the back of his chair. But then Yalda’s hand drifts to things he cannot see. He draws the lines of Preston’s face, the soft cut of his jaw, he tries to emulate the brightness of his eyes.

Yalda doesn’t think the likeness is very good. Seldom does he try to draw people. The only living creatures he has experience committing to paper are birds, because the gates at Starfield couldn't keep them out.

Since leaving, he’s seen other animals too. So even before he finishes shading Preston’s skin, he pictures the shapes that make up radstags, their thick chests, their long, knobby legs. He draws two, side by side, the second looks better than the first. That’s the way it always goes. In the end, he’s pleased with the results.

By the time Preston comes into his office, Yalda has fallen asleep in his bed. But the soft sound of the door clicking shut wakes him. The room is so warm, it was difficult not to drift off. His sketchbook is still open on the bed. Preston asks if he can look?

“Of course,” Yalda stretches his arms over his head, trying to work the sleepiness away. It’s almost time for dinner, and he shouldn’t skip meals. If left to his own devices, he might forget, but he really should make the effort to eat.

Preston flips through several pages, commenting all along that Yalda is very talented.

“It’s better when I use my time to draw things that will help other people.”

“Art helps the world more than you think,” Preston comments. “Though everyone says they appreciate the barracks staying cool overnight. It’s made a real difference already, in terms of morale.”

Yalda smiles, reaching out to take his sketchbook from Preston once he’s finished flipping through. 

“Did you see the drawing of you?” Yalda asks.

Preston stutters for a moment, “Yeah....it was very flattering.”

“It’s accurate,” Yalda laughs, “Well, as accurate as I can manage, given my skill level.”

“I think you made me better looking than I am.”

“Not possible,” Yalda quips. He tucks his sketchbook back into his bag.

“So I was thinking,” Preston sits down on the edge of the bed, slipping one hand along Yalda’s exposed shin. “We have the space in here. Ah, just enough, if you wanted a desk of your own. Or something else, that would help you work?”

Yalda feels so light for a moment, he wonders if he’ll touch the ceiling. Despite their shared affections, this is something else. This is a gesture towards a future. That Yalda could possibly stay here, with Preston. As long as he would like. But then he wonders, with a sinking feeling, if there are to be conditions?

“What if,” Yalda wrings his hands together, “the rot spreads, where people can see?”

Preston’s hand dances further up Yalda’s leg, towards the juncture of his thighs. The touch isn’t strictly sexual, there’s a comfort in it. A teasing closeness. “It won’t be a problem. The Minutemen have had good relations with the Slog for months. And we haven’t been turning ghouls away at the other settlements either. Yes, there might be individuals with their own prejudices, but unless...it will be fine.”

Yalda knocks his knees together, “Unless I become feral.”

“Then will you even be you?” Preston sighs, “Is it terrible of me, not to want to think about that? I’d rather just...you’ll outlive me. I’m certain of it. You may very well outlive all of us. You won’t age anymore.”

“I’ll be ugly, though,” Yalda means for it to come out as a joke, but he knows he’s not very funny.

“Don’t say that,” Preston’s hand returns to Yalda’s ankle, trying to close the circle of his fingers around the knobby bone. “You know it’s not true. You’ll never be anything but beautiful, to me.”

For a moment, Yalda forgets how to breathe. 

\--

Tate and Butch don’t come to dinner. They must still be with their childhood friends. Yalda tries not to dwell on his exclusion too much. It’s completely understandable. After all, Preston is at his side.

Danse sits across from them, turning his sliced, fried tatos over with his fork. He talks very little, but Preston tries to engage him in simple conversation. “I heard you’ve been working in the armory?”

SItting up straight, Danse sets his fork by the side of his plate. There are tiny, pink flowers rimming the dish’s edge. They look so strikingly delicate next to Danse’s large hands. “Yes, General Shaw ordered me to complete an inventory and maintenance report.”

“That’s good,” the corners of Preston’s eyes crinkle, “you’re much more detail oriented than Billie. I think that’s why Ronnie never asked them to complete the inventory of the armory. That stockpile is like her child.”

Danse smiles softly, as if this is a joke he very much likes. “It’s an impressive set of weaponry for a…Yes. It’s impressive.”

Yalda’s not sure if he can ask Danse questions about the Prydwen, or the Citadel, or anything really about the East Coast Brotherhood. So he just eats as much of his meal as he can manage before he feels too stuffed to continue. Preston has already cleaned his plate. He rests his hand on Yalda’s thigh.

Preston and Danse discuss various weapons the Minutemen keep in storage. Danse thinks a number of them should be refurbished, cleaned, and provisioned as soon as possible. “Better to have them in a soldier’s hands than collecting dust in storage.”

Nodding, Preston asks, “do you have recruits in mind?”

“I was hoping you might be able to assist. You know the personnel better than General Shaw. She is more than a capable leader, but she is somewhat harsh in her assessment of others.”

Preston laughs. Yalda doesn't know the General well enough to understand the joke.

“However,” Danse continues, “there is one laser pistol I was hoping to modify and then provision to Vishnu, if it can be arranged?”

Preston and Danse talk shop while Yalda pushes around the tato hash remnants on his plate. 

\--

Gillian stands in front of Yalda, who stays seated on the floor. He's been working on a second cooling unit, to use in Preston’s office. And he's already pulled the materials for a third, which he’ll install in the General’s quarters. She's not a woman who puts much stock in luxury, but Preston says even if Yalda’s work is thankless, Ronnie will appreciate the cooling box, come August. 

Looking up, Yalda asks Gillian if he can help her with anything? They haven't spoken since she left Sanctuary. That was a long time ago now. Though she's been at the Castle since Sturges arrived, she haunts the fortress like a ghost, not a little girl.

“How can you forgive him?” she asks.

“Who?” Yalda puts down his tools, giving Gillian his full attention.

The girl crouches low to the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs. It doesn't look comfortable, but she starts to rock on the balls of her feet. “Preston Garvey. You spend a lot of time with him. You sleep in his room. You kiss him. I've seen you.”

Yalda blushes, but maybe it's only the heat. “Yes,” he wants to say Preston is his boyfriend, but, even after these weeks together, he's not sure that's actually true. There have been men interested in him before, but only ever fleetingly. Part of him still thinks that the moment Preston leaves the Castle without Yalda, he's never coming back. Yalda has seen it happen, before.

“How? After what he did?”

She's talking about the Prydwen, Yalda is sure of it. “I didn’t know anyone aboard the Prydwen.”

“They were still your family!” Gillian doesn’t control her volume. “That’s the way it works!”

Yalda’s eyes go wide. Gillian shakes in place. Maybe months ago, he would have felt the same. When he was still convinced leaving Starfield meant losing himself. But with Butch and Tate, and Caroline leaving too, and now Preston and Sturges and Hera and Billie and Danse and just...the world is full of people who care. The Brotherhood are not exceptional in that regard.

Then again, no one at Starfield had to die. At least, He and Butch didn’t kill anyone. Wounded, yes. But they didn’t kill. But they were separated from Caroline and Tate for hours, the Brotherhood desperate to retain Caroline. 

With Elder Maxson now dead, she’s the logical choice to be the symbolic head of the Brotherhood. 

Where is she now?

Yalda doesn’t have time to think on it, because Gillian starts sobbing, though she does not move.

“You, and me, and Paladin Danse, we should all hate them,” she’s beginning to sound unsure herself. “But you and Paladin Danse, you love them. And I hate it.”

It’s plain now that Gillian’s frustration, her anger, it’s not really about Yalda at all. 

“Paladin Danse was supposed to be the very best of us. Knight Weiss was supposed to help us in the Commonwealth, help us defeat the Institute. And now everyone is dead.”

Reaching forward, Yalda pulls her into his arms. He’s not sure it’s the right thing to do, but she doesn’t fight it. Gillian has already stopped crying, her mouth closed into a thin line. But she doesn’t object to being held. 

“You should hate them.”

Yalda starts to suspect Gillian doesn’t really hate them either.


	15. Between the Fissures, Along the Seams

Preston leaves the door to his office open to try and get the air circulating. Yalda has mentioned making a small cooling unit for the office, and though Preston insists it isn’t necessary, Yalda made the argument that it at least gives him something to do while Preston attends to Minutemen business. 

Really, his business is elsewhere, fanned out across the Commonwealth. He hopes to leave within the week. If anything changes in regards to Vishnu’s plans with the Institute, he can always be radioed back. Besides, the teleporter is at Sanctuary. How they’re going to get four people through, he’s not sure. But that’s not a question for him to figure out anyway. Not his area of expertise. 

With the door open, Preston can see out into the courtyard. The two girls, Gillian and Clara, are running, shouting something indistinct. From a distance, they look almost like twins. But Clara is darker-skinned, higher cheekbones. Gillian’s hair is curlier, and her eyes brown instead of blue. She carries herself straighter, like a soldier, while Clara slouches. Clara is looser with her gestures too, more expressive and gregarious. 

One of the girls, probably Clara, tackles Gillian at her waist, low and hard, throwing them both to the ground. Preston stands up from his desk. It doesn’t look like anyone is supervising them, and the last thing he needs is for them to hurt themselves, or each other. He can remember being ten. The girls probably have no idea of their own strength. Preston can't imagine what they said to each other that now they're fighting, rolling around in the dirt and shrieking. Oh, well, given Gillian, it could have been anything.

As Preston jogs towards them, he can hear laughter mixed in with their yelling. The tension doesn't leave Preston’s shoulders, though. Neither child is pulling their punches. Who knows how the Brotherhood trains Squires, how much combat training they receive? Well, Danse would know. Preston has already seen Gillian fire a gun, more than once. And while her form is good, it still leaves her shaken. But Clara is just a girl from a vault. Surprisingly, though, she holds her own, scrambling away when Gillian tries to flip them over so she’ll have the advantage.

Preston decides against intervening, because the girls are up and running again, rather than trying to punch each other out. Maybe being around someone her own age is good for Gillian. There are no children at Sanctuary or the Castle, and most of the kids at the satellite settlements are older than Gillian or much, much younger. Preston has no idea how long Amata and Freddie are going to stay, but he selfishly hopes it's for a little while longer.

\--

Smiling against Preston’s arm, Yalda asks how his day was? Nothing at all was different about today, and Preston realizes that's good. Great, even. He can feel happy, be happy, even when not constantly busy. He throws his arm over Yalda’s shoulder, holding him close.

They walk the ramparts of the Castle, like they've done so often in the evenings. It's too warm now for Preston to wear his coat. Besides, he likes the feel of Yalda’s skin against his, where they meet.

And perhaps, because the night is so ordinary, but spectacular too, because the sky is clear in patches, where the radioactive haze has broken, and they can see the brightest stars against the inky blackness of the sky, Preston asks the question that has been gnawing at him all along. And he doesn't know for certain that Yalda knows the answer.

“What was the purpose of Starfield?”

Yalda wrinkles his nose, slumps a bit more into Preston’s side. “I've told you.”

“Agricultural experiments,” Preston repeats what Yalda told him when they first met.

“I'm sorry,” Yalda says.

“Because you still can't tell me?”

Yalda’s body tenses, and this time, he pulls away. Preston doesn't try to stop him. “I can't tell you because I don't know. I'm not...I may not be as smart as other people, and maybe I believed what they said for too long. But I know I was lied to, Preston. I know they took apart the things I made, and put the pieces into weapons. I know Butch was important to them because he knew how to calculate missile trajectories. I know a lot of things happened at Starfield that had nothing at all to do with growing corn and pumpkins, okay? But I'm sorry, I don't know what was really going on.”

When he finishes speaking, Yalda holds very still. It's odd, to see him stand like a statue, when normally, he's always moving. 

“I'm sorry,” Preston shakes his head. “Even if...it's not important.”

“It is though,” still, Yalda does not move. “We killed people, here in the Commonwealth, didn't we? Because there's not enough food. Preston, we were supposed to be making better food. I...I don't think it's an accident I'm starting to turn. We were supposed to fix the plants. And someone decided we should build tools of war instead. They let us eat all those rads, while we built death,” Yalda rattles on.

“It's not your fault, Yalda…”

“I know it's not!” Yalda snaps. Immediately, he covers his mouth with both hands, as if trying to take the words back. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he mutters behind his palm.

“No,” Preston takes a step closer, “I'm sorry. I just...Starfield is far away, right?”

Yalda nods, finally moving his hands away from his face, “Close to the Pacific.”

Over their shoulders stands the Atlantic. 

“There's nothing we can do about it.”

Yalda frowns, but neither one of them wishes to push the subject further.

By the time they head back to their quarters, their fingers are laced together again, the cords around Yalda’s wrist softly cutting into the inside of Preston’s arm.

\--

Yalda is awake before Preston, pressing his full, soft lips against the skin of Preston’s neck. Over and over, until the warm, sweet pressure rouses him from sleep.

They don't speak, but Preston turns onto his side, so he can meet Yalda’s gentle assault head-on. They kiss and kiss, until even the thin cotton sheet is too warm to bear. Yalda pushes it down past their hips.

Yalda’s hair is so long now it falls in front of his eyes. The room is still dim, making his eyes a darker brown than they actually are. He scrapes his fingernails cautiously over Preston’s stomach, lighting up each and every one of Preston’s nerves as his fingers drag.

“Morning,” Preston smiles. He can feel Yalda hard against his leg, grinding down on it in an erratic rhythm. 

“Preston, please,” Yalda whines.

“What do you want?”

“You.” And Yalda’s mouth goes back to work on Preston’s lips, stealing breath on every heartbeat. Like the air around him won't keep them alive. 

Just as Preston reaches to slot his hand between their bodies, another idea seems to dawn on Yalda, “Wait let me...with my mouth. Okay? Can I use my mouth?”

Preston’s not fully hard yet, but he could be, with the way Yalda so diligently asks for permission, biting against his lower lip without thinking of it.

“Okay, yeah.” Preston rolls onto his back, kicking the sheet away so it won't impede them. He parts his legs so Yalda can fit in between them, settling his feet flat on the mattress with his knees bent.

Yalda hooks his fingers in the elastic of Preston’s boxers, tugging them off and tossing them to the floor with the sheet. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “I'm so lucky,” before shifting between Preston’s legs. Yalda curls his spine to dip his mouth to the head of Preston’s cock.

Preston can't help but gasp at the contact, warm and wet, though a bit hesitant at first. Yalda swirls his tongue, once, twice, before pushing down deeper onto Preston’s cock. His throat flutters, then relaxes, before descending an inch more.

Everything narrows to the point of contact, the suction of Yalda’s mouth around his cock, the soft silkiness of his hair as it brushes between Preston’s thighs. Even the quiet moans that Yalda can't or won't stop making seem to pool in Preston’s groin. 

“Yalda, I'm close,” Preston warns.

Yalda pulls off with a wet noise. At the brink of frustration, Preston groans. Tilting his head up, he looks at Yalda, his lips reddened by friction and his eyes wide with arousal. “Do you want to finish inside me?” Yalda asks.

Yes, he does. But he wants something else, too. He wants a whole host of things. He wants them all with Yalda. But in this moment, he must pick and choose. 

Preston draws a shaky breath, “You could...to me,” he knows by now Yalda doesn't like ‘fuck’ as a euphemism for sex. 

Tilting his head to one side, Yalda comments, “But you haven't, before.”

“I've used my fingers on myself, I like it. You should…”

Yalda’s olive skin brightens, “I haven't been the one to do it...ever.”

“That's okay,” Preston assures, “I know you won't hurt me.”

“But what if I'm not any good?” Yalda asks.

Preston can't help but laugh, “Then we’ll practice.”

Setting his jaw, Yalda looks determined, “Yes, but you have to tell me if I'm doing something wrong.” Yalda steps out of bed to go to the dresser and pull out the lubricant. He turns it over and over in his hands, as if it's acquired new properties since they last used it.

Preston doesn't rush. He can wait for Yalda to crawl back into bed. Sitting back on his heels, Yalda smears lube over three of his fingers. “Do you want me to stretch you? Or do you want to do it yourself?” But his fingers are already wet, his eyes enamored with the idea.

“You do it,” Preston assures.

Yalda is slow, and deliberate, working one finger, then two. Preston focuses on breathing, strokes his cock when it starts to flag. He likes the sensation, he does. But he feels at once too full and overstimulated. Yalda presses a kiss to the inside thigh.

“Should I try three?”

“Yes,” Preston’s breath hitches. And three, three fingers is good, just starting to burn as Yalda curls his knuckles, brushing against Preston’s prostate. Not every time he strokes, but enough to make Preston want more. He bucks his hips to meet Yalda’s splaying fingers. “I think I'm ready.”

“Oh,” Yalda says with a sense of wonder. “Okay.”

As slow as he was with his fingers, Yalda can't match with his cock. He slides the head against Preston’s rim, until he's able to push inside. While he's halting at first, sinking in with careful movements, once he's sheathed to the base, he lets out a groan that is so satisfied, so uncharacteristically guttural, Preston knows neither of them will last.

“Preston, oh, shit…” Yalda’s voice shifts back into the higher register. 

“You can move,” Preston assures.

Nodding, Yalda starts to draw his hips back. When he pistons forward, Preston groans. It's not perfect, but it's good. So good. The round fullness of Yalda’s cock is more satisfying than Preston’s own fingers, reaches that much deeper, the drag of it thicker.

Preston strokes himself as Yalda works his hips, grabbing onto Preston’s thighs to hold him in place. Though Yalda rests most of his weight onto Preston, it's not bad, feeling almost like he's pinned. Yalda is light enough that the heaviness is bearable. 

Yalda comes first, dropping apologies he doesn't need against Preston’s skin. He promises to do better. To be better. Preston thinks they're just fine. Holding inside Preston, Yalda waits for him to come between their bodies, hot and messy with their names in each other's mouths. 

After Yalda pulls out, they lay together in long, silent minutes. Preston doesn't mind. The quiet is wonderfully intimate. Yalda rests his head on Preston’s shoulder, one arm thrown over his chest. The closeness is warm and welcome, despite the building morning heat.

It's Yalda who breaks the tide, in a small voice.

“Don't leave me behind.”

“I won't.”

\--

Vishnu teleports into the center of the Castle’s courtyard, falling with a solid flop of limbs into a pile in the dirt. He's barely to his feet when he yells for Preston, Danse, and Piper. In that order.

“Where is the General?” His eyes are wide, worried. 

“She was with me in the armory,” Danse explains. There's already tension in his shoulders, no doubt because of Vishnu’s terrified expression. Even when he is afraid, especially when he is afraid, Vishnu smiles by default. 

“Get her, both of you, bring rifles.”

Danse runs back to the armory.

“Vishnu?” Piper questions. She puts a hand on his arm.

“The Institute, they're coming.”

“What?” Preston asks.

“They know. They know what we’re planning. We have to move the time table up.”

“What's going on?” The pitch of Piper’s voice rises, her fingers curling tighter around Vishnu’s arm.

“They know, and they're coming.”

Danse arrives with General Shaw at his side. She's frowning. She's never really cared for Vishnu.

“What is this about? And speak plainly, Weiss.”

Vishnu’s posture shifts, standing up straight and holding his hands still. He slips back into character, perhaps realizing they need him to be the stabilizing force the Wasteland believes him to be.

“Father, the head of the Institute, he knows of plans Preston and I have been putting into place to evacuate and ultimately destroy the Institute.”

Ronnie narrows her eyes, looking from Preston to Vishnu and back again. She would never approve of this. But it's not a Minutemen mission. It's Vishnu’s.

“And what exactly have you brought upon us today?” she asks.

“Have you seen the scouts before?” Vishnu asks.

Ronnie admits, “Of course I have. The Institute have been watching us for months. We knew this would happen.”

“They can teleport synths inside. They don't have to come through the gates,” Vishnu explains. “They're coming now. Any minute.”

“You're sure?” Ronnie is still skeptical. She obviously knows confrontation between the Institute and the Minutemen has always been inevitable. Perhaps this is more warning than she expected. 

“Yes.”

She doesn't question Vishnu further. There isn't the time. Instead, she begins doling out orders, every capable person is to hold a weapon.

Preston rushes back to his quarters to retrieve his laser musket. He checks Yalda’s bag to grab his 10mm pistol. Having never seen Yalda carry anything larger, he doesn't make assumptions about Yalda’s preferred firearm. By the time he turns to leave the office, Yalda is standing in the doorway.

“We’re under attack?”

“We will be,” he holds out the grip of Yalda’s pistol for him to take. “Can you use a rifle?” 

“I don't know,” Yalda admits. Preston curses himself for not having set aside time to teach Yalda to use a more powerful weapon. “Butch can use any energy weapon, Tate can't aim, but he's really, really good at CQC.”

For a moment Preston considers just telling Yalda to hide in the office, where he’ll stay out of trouble. But that teleportation technology Vishnu uses? That came from the Institute. Which means synths can materialize anywhere. They don't have the means to keep the Institute out.

Yalda shouts, quite suddenly, “The children!”

Not waiting, Yalda runs, back towards the barracks. Fuck. He may have an alright time trying to get Clara and Michael to safety, but knowing Gillian? She will want to fight. Preston starts after Yalda.

But it's too late. 

Yalda makes it to the other side of the courtyard before the first batch of synths hit the ground like lightning. Six, then twelve. Preston only just sees Yalda disappear behind the barracks door before he has to wrench his attention to the invaders.

Preston is forced to backtrack, darting under the nearest archway to get any sort of cover. There are seventeen adults at the Castle right now. Plus the three children. Looking to his left, he sees Sturges and Hera crouched behind another pillar. They take turns aiming around the stone barrier. Neither of them have much combat experience. To his right, no one.

Across the courtyard there's enough laser fire to suggest that's where Vishnu and Danse have positioned themselves. Preston’s guess proves correct when Danse lunges out of cover, protected by his power armor. The Brotherhood crest has been scratched out, then painted over to try and hide the damage.

Preston lines up his first shot. The musket is slow, but powerful. He can activate the beam splitter too, sending off a scattershot of laser if the synths get too close. But for now, he tries to make use of the cover.

Danse is by far the most effective at taking down the synths, able to get in closer and knock them over before unloading, or simply crushing them under his massive hydraulic boots.

Preston hears a shout, but can't quite make out what is said over the roar of gunfire. He cranks his musket, preparing his next shot.

A figure bursts out from behind an archway along the north side of the Castle. He's too lightly armored for his exposure to be safe, but the plasma coming from behind him takes out the two synths aiming directly at him.

The Lone Wanderer.

He shouts something indecipherable that must be meant for the shooter over his shoulder, before tackling a synth to the ground. He has a powerfist on his right hand, and the left is nothing but metal and wires anyway. Pounding his fists into the prone synth, he doesn't hesitate to move onto the next.

Preston decides it's better just to believe the rumors. All of them.

Behind him, Preston hears the crack of teleportation. Swiveling, he shoots his musket once, right in the center of the synth’s chest. They've teleported so close that the synth body tumbles forward on top of him. There's no time to wind up his musket to hit the second synth looming just behind the first. Reaching for his waist, he pulls out his 10mm and empties the clip, hoping it will be enough.

With a long swipe, the synth catches Preston across his chest with its baton. Knocks the air from his lungs, making him stagger backwards against the pillar. Preston knows he's strong, but he has so little experience with hand to hand combat. Grabbing his musket from the ground, he bashes it into the head of the synth, trying to disrupt a second blow. 

When he swings, there's a sharp pain along his ribcage. Cracked, almost certainly. Preston hisses, but he has to swing again, finally knocking over the second synth.

They're teleporting to places other than the courtyard. He has to get to Yalda and the children.

He sticks to the walkway, keeping close to the wall and out of the line of fire, even though it doubles the distance he has to run. The other people taking aim at the oncoming synths become a blur. He just has to make sure that Yalda is safe, that he's armed, or, maybe, Amata or Freddie have stayed with the children as well. Someone with combat experience.

He's just steps away from the doorway, through which he watched Yalda disappear, when the door creaks open, just wide enough for Yalda to slip through. Yalda has a bag slung over his shoulder, resting heavy and bulky at his hip. Grenades.

“Yalda!” Preston shouts. Yalda hasn't seen him, too focused on getting into position.

Yalda turns sharply, “Preston!” The sound of fire is unceasing. “I have to get closer.”

Biting his tongue, Preston wants to yell at Yalda to get back inside before he's hurt. Instead, he asks, “The children? The synths can teleport inside.”

Yalda is already running away from him. “Freddie is with them!”

Preston has no choice but to dash after Yalda, who is already yelling up ahead.

Butch and Tate work in precise coordination. Butch with the plasma gun, Tate with his fists. It's one shot, cutting through and landing in a synth’s chest, then Tate takes the intended target to the ground, smashing his fists into it, once, twice, then moving on. They conserve ammo this way, they move efficiently, knowing each other's decisions before they're even made.

Yalda slides in next to Butch, still partially hidden behind a support beam. He says something to Butch that Preston can't hear.

Dwelling on Yalda accomplishes nothing. He has to wrench his attention away, turning back to find a defensible position. Preston keeps his attention on the courtyard as he ducks behind a free pillar. He cranks his musket before exposing himself to fire.

He's just in time to watch Tate and Danse scatter. Tate darts away quickly, scrambling to his feet and out of the way. Danse is slower in his power armor, and he barely makes it out of the blast radius before Yalda pelts the dense clutch of synths with a frag grenade, so perfectly timed at release, it explodes at the moment of impact.


	16. I'm sick, you're tired. Let's dance.

Yalda curls his knees to his chest, not caring how his skirt billows open around his legs. He’s alone, tucked into Preston and his quarters. Much of the floor is covered in remnants of gen 2 synths. Yalda intends to pick them apart for components. They're made of high grade plastics, rubber, and steel frames. 

But he can't focus. So not today, not after this morning. Instead, he wonders about Danse. He saw Danse bruise. One of the synths struck him with such brutal force, it dented his armor. When Danse stripped, Yalda saw purple and sickly gold blooming over his sternum. So Danse isn't made of high grade plastics, rubber, or steel.

There are pinprick welts over his own arms and legs, from when he was careless, standing too close to his own explosions. At the time, he'd been riding high on adrenaline, unable to feel his own limbs through the staticy noise of his racing heart.

Perhaps he had been too reckless. But when the onslaught of synths ceased, Butch pat him on the shoulder, told him he had done well.

Preston had said nothing, rushing into a private meeting with Danse, Piper, and the Sole Survivor. Yalda tries to ignore the twisting knot in his gut. Working on something, anything, should take his mind off of what is certain to come. They did not plan for this. They could not plan for this.

By the time Preston returns, Yalda has accomplished nothing. His stomach aches from stress and hunger. They have all missed lunch.

Preston’s face is drawn, as if he has lived years in the hour he has been gone. Sitting up on the bed, Yalda does not ask him what they have planned. It is not his place to pry. 

“Yalda?”

“Yes?” Anything, anything Preston asks, Yalda will oblige.

Frowning, Preston explains, “I’m going to the Institute. Now, as soon as possible, I mean.”

Yalda’s mouth forms a gentle “o.” 

“I don’t...Yalda, I need to ask you something.”

Tipping his head, Yalda answers, “Yes?”

“Sturges was injured in the attack. They’ve got him on stims and bedrest now. But we can’t wait.” Preston sighs deeply, “I wouldn’t ask otherwise. But we need an engineer. I asked Butch about it but-”

“-Butch is no good with machines,” Yalda smiles. He’s already decided yes. In an abstract sort of way, he’s scared. Because the Institute is a great unknown. “Should I talk to Sturges, about what I need to do?”

“Ah,” Preston reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a few sheets of folded paper. “These are all the notes he took. It’s not much, just based off of what Vishnu could get him in terms of information.”

Yalda unfolds the sheets, laying them side by side on the bed so he can scan over them all at once. “I can do this,” it’s a simple rewiring job. Shutting down the climate control systems for the Institute, locking all the doors open, flushing the ventilation. Yalda doesn’t even have to see the console to know he can do this. It’s higher level equipment than he’s ever worked on. But the principles are the same. “I can do this,” he repeats.

Stepping to the side of the bed, Preston leans over to kiss him, warm and plush and all at once, with just an edge of unchaste wetness. “Thank you.”

Yalda takes the time to fold up Sturges’ notes back into neat little squares. 

“You should wear armor,” Preston suggests. He’s already turning away to get dressed himself. “They know we’re coming.”

Pushing himself out of bed, Yalda avoids the synth pieces littering the floor. He has a set of reinforced leather armor he can wear, shoved into one of the dresser drawers. “Who is going?” he asks.

“Vishnu, Piper, you, me, Danse...and…”

“And?” Yalda’s fingers work at latching together the armor pieces. They don’t fit as snugly as they could, but the leather will still cusion laserfire adequately. Institute means indoors, so he figures that grenades are only a last-ditch effort. And besides, they’re not bringing him to fight. He sticks his 10mm into the waistband of his armor. 

“Vishnu is talking to the Lone Wanderer about it. When I left to come get you, he and Butch were doing that...thing they do…”

Tilting his head, Yalda asks, “Like they’re talking but it doesn’t make any sense?”

“Yeah, as if no one else in the room will ever have the right frame of reference.”

“We don’t,” Yalda says bluntly, “we can’t.” Some time ago, Yalda gave up on understanding them. In the wake of his failure, he can only help them, trust them. 

Preston laces his fingers in between Yalda’s as they walk back towards the armory. 

Under any other conditions, the words that pass between them, between footfalls as they approach their destination, might be considered an act of final desperation. Why have they waited so long? Yalda can’t find a suitable answer. But he decides, with certainty, to say it now, not because he may not get another chance, but because Preston’s steps line up perfectly with his own. Because the sun is high and warm in the sky. And even though he’s afraid, and he might always be afraid, Yalda is ready to face the future. Tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

“Preston?”

Preston doesn’t say anything, waiting on Yalda’s words. Another ten steps and they’ll be in the armory. 

“I love you,” Yalda’s short of breath, his lungs fluttering in anticipation, in light, airy joy, even if Preston says nothing in return.

Preston’s thumb brushes over the back of Yalda’s hand, feeling out the bone. “I love you too.”

Despite what they’re about to walk into, Yalda’s smile won’t fade.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are super appreciated!  
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


End file.
